A Bargain Paid in Pain and Death

© 2023, ANDREW WARWICK

In the shadows of the great Karal Nef, an imposing and craggy ridge of many fingered spires and sheer sided hills, a dying man dragged himself across the desert.  Near useless legs trailed behind him, blood seeping from the wounds scoured across them, blood that dripped and mingled and became lost in the furrows he left behind in the deep red sands, a trail that stretched out far behind him, to mark the passage of his journey.

Above, in the many columned peaks of the hills that were splashed with a vivid array of colours, where spires grasped towards the pallid sky to claw at the crimson sun, carrion feeders perched with watchful patience.  There they observed the man with eager eyes, waiting until his struggles ceased and they could swoop down with razored teeth and feathered claws, to commence their frenzied feeding.

Across the coarse red sands the man pulled himself.  Hands scrabbled at the shifting sands and broken rocks, seeking scant purchase, hauling himself forward with laboured breath.  The relentless blaze of the sun had gone, hidden behind the Karal Nef, and with it the worst of the crimson sting, yet still the heat of the day smouldered in the air, stifling in its intensity.  Swirls of winds picked up fine sands and lashed at him, scouring exposed flesh.  Clothes that had been torn and tattered gave little protection from their relentless strikes.

A boulder lay in his path ahead, a thing of pale greys much cracked.  There Enkisir hauled himself and came to rest.  He dragged himself up to sit against it, resting back and head against the blessed cool of the stone, to gaze back upon where he had come from, towards distant Khadif Ser of the Shining Domes and Scented Gardens and the crystal clear Pools of Hemnesh with their life-giving waters.  Over Khadif Ser settled a haze, one of shifting sands and shimmering heat that caused the city to blur into the horizon.

A leg twitched as Enkisir sat there, staring across the wastes towards Khadif Ser, and beyond.  Gashes scourged his legs, leaving them too weak to use.  Blood seeped still from the whisper-vine wounds that marred them, the venomous sap still coursing through him.  He coughed and rested his head back against the stone.  Pain there was, and would be until the moment of his death, a slow creep of it that flowed through his veins, spreading ever onwards.  Not yet would he relinquish his life though.  Still he clung to it, feeble as it was, not until the price was paid in full, and his reward received.

From among the haze that marred Khadif Ser, a figure swam slowly into view, moving slow and methodically, yet unerringly headed his way, following the trail he had left behind.  He could not run, could barely crawl; all he could do was but sit and wait for them to arrive.  Enkisir feared not death, no longer, not while the promises made were still fresh in his mind, but even so his blood ran cold as the walking figure grew more distinct with each looming step, growing ever nearer.

Tall she was, like the fabled Sons of the Skies, both pale and dark, with death in her hands, and stalking at her shoulder, an ever present companion.  Around her swirled a shadowed cloak, one that seemed to defy the very nature of the winds, moving as it willed and not as nature intended.  It caught not the light of the day but drew it into its endless depths.

At her arrival, she squatted down to face him, with hair as dark as the night and eyes as pale as the washed-out skies.  In one hand she bore a long sword, its blade as white as bleached bone, cold as death, upon which flowed eldritch silver letters.  Her gaze was hard, eyes like shards of diamonds; no remorse was evident in her face, only a resolve as unbreakable as the desert winds.  She wore not the coloured robes of the Sons of the Skies, as was their nature, but a shirt of mailed silver, despite the heat, over which rested the cloak that flowed like the shadows themselves, in part real yet insubstantial too.

“Enkisir,” she spoke, and in her voice were the echoes of death itself, “Long has this day been coming.  As far as you have run, it could never be enough.”

Enkisir coughed and on his lips was blood and on his breath the heady scent of the whisper-vine.  “Ishkinil.  Dirgesinger,” he replied weakly.  Yet still a smile graced his lips, one that spoke of a hidden triumph, that he and not her would emerge victorious.

Ishkinil raised up the bone-white sword.  The air was chilled about it, shimmering with it.  It hummed as it moved, a sound but barely perceptible at the edge of hearing yet one that plucked discordant cords across the soul.  “The skeins of fate have been woven into the tapestry of your life, the dirge has been sund,” she responded.  “The words have been whispered of your deeds, and those that went on ahead of you no wait upon your arrival.”

Enkisir began to laugh, a sound that turned to coughing as he did so.  “Mayhap they do, but they will wait a while longer still,” he pronounced, certain of it.  Even as he spoke thus, in his eyes was a hint of madness, one put there by fear and suffering.  “Pain has been given, as is the price, aye, and blood and death.  Think you that I would succumb so easily, to fall into your grasp so readily?”  Fool,” he spat, “Thrice-damned fool.  Let your master chase longer yet, for I shall not fall into his grasp this day.”

Ishkinil slowly rose to her full height, towering over the seated, pain-wracked man, her cloak rippling about her, in part shrouding her so that it appeared a dark and brooding cloud had descended upon her, a look matched in her face, and in her eyes.  The sword sung louder still as she raised it on high, as if to strike down Enkisir where he sat, yet her hand was stayed.

“What madness have you entered into?” she demanded, speaking low and cold.

“Madness?” swore Enkisir.  “Madness, you would call it?  Nay, not madness but need drove me here, a desire that you could not fathom.”  He rested a hand on the wounds on his leg and touched it.  Raising the hand, he showed her the stain of blood upon it.  “Whisper-vine venom,” he announced  “How much blood has been offered up, freely?  How much pain has been offered up, freely?  Aye, you know of what I speak; I can see it in your eyes.  You know.”

A whisper came upon the winds, the echo of far off voices.  Ishkinil lifted her head to listen, and her pale eyes clouded over.  The voices that carried to her had a cutting edge to them, mocking in their words even if they could not truly be made out.  The intent was within them though, unmistakable.

The winds picked up, swirling sands before them, vortexes curling grains within them, three, then four, moving against the winds.  They danced erratically yet unerringly towards where Ishkinl stood.

“He has drunk his fill, and more,” Enkisir called out. “Behold, the coming of the Children of the Sands, the Children of Sunura of Khaif Ser!”

The last words he shouted aloud, as if giving voice to a summons, and as he did the vortexes of swirling sands collapsed inwards and coalesced, from them figures stepping forth.  Man shaped they were, yet they were not men, for they were cloaked in the sands of the deserts as their flesh and within them smouldered dull flames while smoke curled around them.

The Children of the Sands, the Children of Khadif Ser, sung forth by the tyrant of the city himself, Sunura the Thrice-Lived, fueled by pain and blood.  Torturous forms they were that had once lived yet had now been given new shapes by their master.  Pain was all that they knew, and pain they sought to give in return.

Ishkinl span about to face them, dancing as lightly across the sands as the desert fox, as shadows closed in around her, darkness that shrouded and obscured.  Dirgesinger whined in her hand as she prepared to face the creatures of sand and smoke and fire, white-blue flames rippling along the bone-white length of her sword.

Around her spread the Children of the Sands, in their hands appearing swords much as they were, blades of smoke and sand, the dreaded Akuan of Khedmesh, whose touch no armour could resist.

Enkisir laughed from where he sat, watching as the Children closed in upon Ishkinil. “Now you die and the bargain struck shall be sealed.”

“Think you that this is the end?” Ishkinl asked, a fey mood settling upon her.  Within her eyes there smouldered dark shadows, for death was hersand she was its, the appointed and awaited for handmaiden.  Dirgesinger crooned and sung as she spun it in her hands and she exalted in it, laughing as she sprung forth like a wild beast to attack.

Swift did Ishkinil descend upon her foes, a raptor descending upon its prey, without thought of defence, for little would it prevail against the sorcerous blades that the Children wielded.  Her blade arced out towards the nearest Child, white-bleu flames upon its length.  Swift were the Children, but swifter still was she and the blade clove deep into the form of sands and smoke, and upon it twisted the flames, dancing upon its body.

A howl unearthly arose from it, echoing among the hills and the spires of the Karal Nef, disturbing the carrion feeders that rested there, sending them scattering aloft.  The Child lost substance and shape as Ishkinil slid clear her blade, already dancing away from it as it fell apart, to collapse into a spreading pile of sand, one that the winds took up and scattered.

Graceful was her stride, fluid in form more like to that of the scarce running waters that flowed upon the parched lands. About her flowed the cloak of living shadows, obscuring, dancing with her, ribbons twisting free to confound her foes, to impede their actions.

Her sword flickered from one to the next, seeking out insubstantial flesh, tearing screams with each touch as they scored across the Children. She danced among them, twisting, spinning. Dirgesinger met the Akuan of Khemesh and with each clash of the blades sorcerous sparks leapt, smouldering red and white blue, while echoes of screams were torn free, madness contained within them.

A strike whistled towards her as she parried aside one blow, the heat of it touching her flesh as she twisted aside, the smoke caressing her skin. Her free hand flickered towards the wielder and skeins of shadows leapt from her cloak towards it, shadows that crawled and constricted.

A flick of her wrist saw her riposte the parried blow, driving deep the white blade into her foe. Even as she slid the blade free, once more she was spinning, light upon the sands, barely touching them, her dark hair flowing free, shadowed cloak whispering around her, a dervish of death.

From where he sat and watched, Enkisir could scarce follow her moves, for all around was the swift flow of battle, of blades singing, of smoke and shadows that obscured, and the howls of the Children that raked at the ears and the soul. The Lady of Shadows she was called, and more besides; The Handmaiden of Death. Queen of the Lost and Ishkinil the Dirgesinger in whose hands was the sword of Death himself, said to have been forged from His very bones. Only now did he truly see who she was, truly understand that all tricks and stratagems to escape were of little worth. Death she served and He would not be denied what was owed to Him. Or so she thought.

One by one the Children were felled by Death’s sword, their forms to be scattered by the desert winds, to leave behind no trace of where they had fallen.

A trembling took his limbs as the last of them fell, so that once more he was alone with Ishkinil. She turned to face him as the shadows fell away from her so that now all that hung about her was a cloak of black. She had not gone untouched, he could see, for the Children were a fearsome foe. Blood marred her mail shirt and clothes crimson where the lightest touches of the insubstantial sorcerous blades had left their mark. Blood too was upon her face, and dust and smoke and sweat, yet it did not dim the cold fires in her eyes. Once more she squatted before him, leaning against her sword. He could scarce take his eyes from it.

A whisper of dark wings came to him and a bird alighted upon the boulder he rested against. It was not, as first he had feared, one of the carrion feeders but instead a raven of almost iridescent black. It turned its head, studying him with eyes of almost near pure white.

“Why?” Ishkinil asked of him. “Think you that a Tyrant would protect you? What could he offer in exchange for what he inflicted upon you?” She motioned towards his wounds, to where the whisper-vine sap crawled and from where pain writhed within him.

Enkisir gritted his teeth against the ever-burgeoning pain, feeling it crawl ever further throughout him. Not long now would it take for it to bring the end, not long until the promised release. “What could the Tyrant of Khadif Ser, the Lord of Dark Hours himself offer unto me for whom the shadows hunt? Think you that I am a mere play thing for him?” A bitter laugh danced upon blood speckled lips. “You who think that you know so much, that you are all knowing in the ways of death, are in fact blind.”

Ishkinil lent in closer yet, her face levelled with his, and her eyes shimmered cold. Within them he could see far off figures, watching, waiting. A skein of shadows drifted from her cloak, to dance lightly across his brow, a caressing touch that dissipated almost as soon as it did.

“It is not easy for any to escape the clutches of the one to whom all come in the end, for not even the much-vaunted might of the tyrants can delay Him forever. Think that you can escape where even the mightiest and most learned have failed?”

“For a time, and a time,” he responded, and a smile played for a brief moment across his face, one laced with pain. Then came silence as the light faded from his eyes and the colour from his face.

Ishkinil’s brow furrowed in a frown at his response, for she could see the cold touch of Death’s hand come to rest upon him, one that grasped and clutched at an insubstantial form within. Yet it could not grasp it and withdrew, its rightful prize denied. The raven beat its wings and let out a raucous cry.

As Ishkinil sat back on her heels, the body that had once been Enkisir trembled and shuddered and a hollow laugh was torn from it though still no light shone from its dead eyes. From beneath, from out of the sands, chains of smoke rose. They grasped onto the body, latching onto the soul within, dragging it down into the deserts.

Ishkinil surged to her feet and Dirgesinger struck, whispering as it carved into Enkisir’s body, yet too late, for the soul was gone, dragged below. Still the laughter sounded, echoing all around. It bounced off the walls of high Karal Nef, setting grains of sand to trembling. Madness was in the laughter, enough to drive the weak of will to despair. Ishknil was not so, and she stood, poised for attack, sword held steady before her, the shadows once more drawing in around.

The ground erupted but a short few steps before her, a form within it, terrible to behold, alike unto the Children of the Sands but yet not one of them. Upon its brow rested an iron circlet of smoke and smouldering flames, and it was clothed with robes of dark threads. Its eyes gleamed with the very fires of the night. Higher still it rose, to stand thrice her height.

Here then stood before her stood the image of Sunura the Thrice-Lived in his darkest form, Tyrant of Khadif Ser, yet not truly was he there. In his hands he grasped the soul of Enkisir, a soul that writhed. Struggle as it might, it could not break free.

Hollow were the words of the tyrant when he spoke. “Bargained for life he did, and life I gave him, yet not as he expected. Think you too to bargain, Handmaiden of Death? Long have you sought out this one,” he said, holding forth the writing soul so that she could see it clearly, the pain and torment on its insubstantial features. “Long has your Master desired it, and yet here I have it. What then shall you offer for it?”

A ring of soul scrapping steel sounded as Ishkinil slid home Dirgesinger into its scabbard. “No bargains do I make,” she told him. “Hold him for now, for in time will I claim what is owed Death.”

A hollow laugh echoed again, and the image of Sunura faded away, sands returning to the desert, smoke dissipating into the wind.

From the boulder the raven leapt, shimmering down to land upon Ishkinil’s shoulder.

“A fool it is that thinks he can bargain with a tyrant,” the raven croaked, “And twice a fool that believes what it is that is offered.”

“Aye, that is so,” Ishkinil replied. She gazed off across the hazy deserts, to where far off Khadif Ser shimmered upon the horizon. “Let him keep it for now,” she pronounced. “He cannot escape, and many more there are that Death has claim upon that seek to escape his embrace. In time we shall have our reckoning, with Enkisir and Sunura both.”

Turning, she began to stride forth, deeper into the deserts, leaving Khadif Ser in her dust, midnight cloak rippling about her.

“Where too then?” inquired the raven

“We shall go as fate decrees and as our feet take us,” she answered, “But for now the spider-haunted vaults of Khurza Tal call, and the mysteries within.”

The End