Black Shadows of the Ancients

© 2023, ANDREW WARWICK

Chapter One – Within Spider-Haunted Vaults

The skittering sound of many legged beasts greeted Ishkinil as she descended down the uneven stone steps. Pale light from the torch she held aloft flickered across the rough cut walls of the tunnel she followed, her head bent low, for it had been designed for those of a lesser stature than hers.

The steps led down into a high vaulted chamber and the flames of her torch reflected in many beady eyes around the chamber, eyes that disappeared as a flow of rodents scattered in all directions, seeking shelter in still darker corners and hidden burrows.

The dark haired woman stepped out into the vault, moving with the smooth, cautious steps of one on alert, the white bone sword Dirgesinger held at the ready before her, pale eyes seeking out any signs of danger. Her black cloak clung to her, as dark as the shadows that clung to the vault itself, and darker still, for it seemed to draw in the light, to absorb it.

As she reached the middle of the vault, beneath the highest point of the roof above, where arched supports met, she stopped. There she slowly turned around, intently studying all parts of the chamber. Webs clung thick in the corners, or were strung out between the pillars that climbed to the lofty heights of the chamber above. Beyond the now fled rodents, there were no signs of any other living thing.

A clatter of boots came down the steps, and a young man tumbled forth into the chamber, to join Ishkinil. He was short, and slender, his dark hair cropped short, and dark beard trimmed and oiled and curled. Thin of face, his dark eyes were a mix of curiosity and apprehension. His clothes seemed out of place in the dusty, web filled chamber, for they were those designed for court and not exploring ancient chambers. His shirt, of a rich, dark blue, was edged with gold and silver thread, and more such thread embroidered patterns of running lions upon the sleeves and breast. Crimson trousers were tucked into soft, black boots, and he carried a silvered blade in hand, yet reluctant he appeared to wield it, ill at ease, as if he had little skill in its use, or even a desire to hold it.

“This appears to be the place we seek,” he said, voice nervous, loud in the confined space. His eyes shifted about as he studied the web shrouded walls of the chamber, never still.

“It is where we were led, Anubarak,” Ishkinil responded. “It is where we are meant to be.”

“And yet there is naught here to be seen. I had expected more.” The young man stepped forward, towards the far wall from the entrance by which they had arrived. With his sword he prodded at the wall, brushing aside the curtain of webs that lay upon it, A spider, one the size of a hand, dropped from the webs onto the blade of his sword. With a startled, almost high pitched, curse, he shook it loose and jumped back. The spider scurried away on silent feet, to disappear once more into the webs.

“Cursed beasts,” he said, still stepping back further, to rejoin Ishkinil.

“Dangerous too,” Ishkinil told him, a grim smile upon her face. “The beasts of spider-haunted Khuza Tal are not to be taken lightly, for most potent is their venom, far more than one would expect from creatures of their size. It is said in dark magics their venom is steeped, most sought after by assassins and poisoners for its potency.”

Anubarak shuddered, drawing closer to the tall warrior woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a flicker of movement. He span about with a hasty cry, slashing his sword wildly through the air.

Ishkinil rested a hand lightly upon his sword arm. “Careful,” she said. “It does little good to be jumping at shadows and spiders. A wary eye and a steady nerve shall see you through safe, yet if it is not to be so, then Enkurgil shall receive you into his embrace.”

Anubarak’s sword wavered at her words and he cast a quick glance aside at her. She showed no nerves or fear, only cold steel in her eyes and a set of her face that spoke of fierce resolve. “It is well for you to say,” he told her, “As one who knows Death’s touch so well, but for those of us less blessed, his is one not to welcome yet, not when there is long life still ahead, and much to see and experience yet.”

A touch of a smile seemed to touch her lips for but a moment, and then was gone. “Not all is as seen,” she replied, “And not all mysteries can be made out. Yet here we shall discover those that we can.”

“What, then, is your plan?”

“Many vaulted are the chambers beneath Khurza Tal, yet here is one that stands alone, where all others are connected. Why would that be? No, there is more to be seen here than yet we have discovered.”

She made her way to the wall before her, thrusting her torch into the webs. They curled and shrivelled up before the flames, and spiders scurried out of her way, ignored by the grim faced woman. When at last they were gone, webs and spiders both, the wall stood bare before her. Anubarak crept up behind her, to peer around at what she had found.

The wall had once, long before, been painted with a vivid mural, but now the colours were faded and the paint flaked so that only parts of it stood out enough to make out. What could be seen was a procession of beings marching across the mural, ones not human, for they were too tall for that, limbs too long and misshapen, and the heads that they bore were bestial in nature, snouted and hairy. They were clad in robes of many colours, and carried in their hands bows and swords.

“The Shahadi,” Ishkinil observed, distaste showing on her face. “Well was it that this place was hidden.”

“For what ends?”

“Few there are who would treat with those who would traffic with the Shahadi, for evil were their ways, and evil they did spread.”

“Evil is all around us,” Anubarak observed, “Yet seldom is it hidden.”

“Aye, that is so,” Ishkinil agreed. “The tyrants lord over the cities and perpetrate great evil in their lust for power and wealth, and yet they are but babes compared to the Shahadi. It was they who brought sorcery into being, who learnt the means to fuel it through the suffering of others. Long has it been since they walked the world, and the lands have changed greatly since their day.”

A glimmer of a frown touched her brow as she looked at the mural, and she touched the tip of her sword to one part of it, to one of the Shahadi in the middle of the procession. “This one differs,” she said, Dirgesinger resting lightly upon the one she indicated, and Anubarak could see it was much as she had said. While the others carried with them swords and bows, this one had a sword but no bow. Instead he carried an orb, one of a bronzed colour.

“It does not appear to be painted on like the rest of the mural,” Anubarak said.

A smile curled for a moment upon Ishkinl’s lips. “No, it is not. It is set into the wall itself.” An orb of bronze had been attached to the wall, to appear as part of the mural. Using her sword, she pressed against the metal orb and it sunk into the wall. For but a moment it appeared to them that it did nothing but then they heard, beyond the wall, a grinding sound and the wall shuddered. Dust and webs fell and the wall began to sink into the floor, slow and methodical, the grinding growing louder. Rats fled from their hiding places at the sound of it. Anubarak bit back a sudden curse as one scurried across his foot but Ishkinil paid them no mind. The wall descended until it was at the level of her head and then ground to a halt, leaving a wide gap above it to the roof. They could not see beyond yet, only that there was an opening leading into a darkened area.

“It would appear that the mechanism has not survived the long ages well,” Ishkinil stated. “Once it would have dropped to the floor, but no more. We shall have to climb over.”

“Is that wise?” Anubarak inquired. “We know not what manner of things may lurk within.”

“And nor shall we unless we ourselves look.” She slid her sword home into its scabbard and handed the torch to Anubarak. Thus done, she gripped the top of the receded wall and pulled herself up in one swift, easy motion, swinging over the top to straddle it. She looked into the darkness beyond, seeking out any obvious signs of trouble.

“The torch,” she said, and Anubarak extended it up to her. Taking it, she held it out into the dark before her, into the void that lay beyond. A tunnel extended out from the vault, inclined in a downwards slope though she could not make out more than that. “It would appear that all is clear for now,” she announced. Once more she extended a hand down to Anubarak. The young man took it and found himself hauled upwards, scrambling over the top of the wall. He dropped down to the other side, half gasping for breath at the unexpected swiftness of it.

Silently Ishkinil dropped down alongside him, landing on pantherish feet. Her face was set and her eyes gleamed in the torchlight. Dirgesinger whispered clear of its scabbard with a longing hunger, held steady before her. “Now to see what lies within the spider-haunted vaults of Khurza Tal,” she said and started to stride downwards into the shadowed depths.

*****

Gloom clung to the tunnels before them, reluctant to part even at the touch of the light from the flames of their torch. They seemed almost more alive than was natural, swaying and parting before them, before once more curling in behind them after they had passed. Against the torchlight it pushed, testing it, trying to envelop the light and plunge all into dark.

Anubarak looked around at the shadows, eyes wide and nervous in his movements as he followed behind the tall Ishkinil, almost crowding her as he did. He did not like the place, not the unnatural dark, the tight confines of the tunnel or the silence that lay heavy upon it. It was only the presence of Ishkinil, seemingly unperturbed by all that transpired around them, that kept him from running, from fleeing back through the tunnels to seek out the welcome touch of the sun above once more.

Along the walls of the tunnel that they followed, they caught glimpses of carvings and of murals, ones an age old and much worn and faded. Dark figures could still be seen, things of long and spindly limbs that scurried across them, as well as more images of the Shahadi, and other monsters, not just of myth and legend but nightmares as well. None walked the earth any more, if they had at all, for which Anubarak was thankful, for the sight of them upon the walls was fearful enough. To meet them in the flesh would be terror itself.

He tried to pay them no attention, yet found that harder said than done, for the cast of the torchlight played across them as they walked, and the flickering flames appeared to make the murals dance before them, to leer and gyrate in ways unnatural. The deeper down the tunnel they walked, the heavier the fear of the place set upon him. Terror heightened in him, and as a result he imagined that he heard noise all around, not just the scamper of tiny feet, but other, worse things, of whispers and dissonant tunes played on infernal instruments, tunes not wrought by the hands or mind of men. In the shadows, it seemed as if figures twisted into being, hands reaching out, grasping, only to fade away at the touch of the torchlight.

When Ishkinil came to a halt, he almost stumbled into the back of her, so distracted he had become. She turned to him, giving him a sharp look. “Take care,” she said softly, “For we have come to the end of the tunnel.”

Anubarak looked beyond her, seeing that the shadows ahead lessened, for the tunnel levelled off and opened out into another chamber, one far beneath the ground that had long been hidden for view or knowledge.

Webs were flung across the opening into the chamber, and these Ishkinil slashed away, cutting a path through. She thrust out her torch into the chamber, to see what it held.

A light seemed to catch at the entry of her torch, of reflected flames caught up by crystals held within the walls, to be sent forth in a shimmering array of rainbow light. It bathed the chamber the two entered into, a cavern that had not been carved out of the earth by hands, but one natural in its origin. Crystal growths protruded from the wall, and ancient rock formations were on display, of stalagmites and stalactites that grew from the floor and ceiling, of frozen shawls and ribbons and flows of creamy stone that dripped and seeped forth.

All, though, was dominated by what lay at the heart of the chamber, an object not natural, for unknown hands had carved and constructed three statues of enormous proportions there, reaching almost to the ceiling of the chamber. Of green stone they were, so dark as almost to be black, of three Shahadi, standing around a bowl of red stone that stood as high as Ishkinil. Each figure grasped in its hands a long knife and a stone heart, holding their hands aloft. Behind the bow, opposite to where they had entered, a raised stone dais stood, looking down over the bowl.

“An offering bowl,” Ishkinil observed as she looked upon the tableau, voice little more than a whisper.

“Offerings of what?”

Her answering smile was grim, a flickering of her lips and no more. “It would best not to know, I feel. The Shahadi were not kindly masters, and pain was the currency of their power.”

“Why would any wish to sacrifice to fiends such as these?” Anubarak wondered.

“There are always dark cults, hidden away in the recesses and corners of the world, or, for those bold enough to proclaim it, out in the open. Many seek power, by whatever means, and the Shahadi possessed that, and more. There was great risk, bargaining with such as these, but those who wrought this thought little of it. They are long gone though. It has been an age since any stood here and gazed upon this. It would be for the best that no others found out about it either, and be tempted by powers best not meddled with.”

A shudder convulsed Anubarak even at the thought of it. There were horrors enough in the world without adding ancient ones to deal with as well. “This seems not to have turned out as we expected,” he mused. “The rumours spoke of wealth to be had for the bold and yet I see none here at hand.”

“I think, perhaps,” Ishkinil responded, “That it was not physical wealth that they referred to, and it does not exist as we perceived it.”

“What, then, could it be?”

“Power, perhaps, or knowledge.” She shrugged, indifferent. “Or it could be that there never was any wealth, and it was simply meant to lure the unsuspecting here.”

“A trap you mean?” Anubarak asked, spinning about as he did, looking all around, sword wavering his hands.

“Aye, maybe once, but long has this place been abandoned. Come, there is no need for concern. That danger has long passed. For now, I wish to have a look around, to see what else may be hidden here.”

Thus saying, she headed out deeper into the cavern, with its crystals and statues, though not once did she let her guard down, for safe though it might have appeared she knew well enough to not take anything on appearances sake.

To the statues she went first, climbing up onto the dais, there to peer down into the offering bowl. What she saw she mentioned not, and nor did Anubarak feel like asking in case he got an answer he did not wish for.

She looked up at the statues. Anubarak watched as she sheathed Dirgesinger and set her torch resting up against the leg of one of them. To Anubarak’s surprise, she began to climb it, swinging swiftly up its legs, across its torso, to stand upon its shoulder and look at its head. She drew from her side not Dirgesinger but a stout knife and this she used to pry something from the statue’s head, all the while perched precariously on its shoulder as she did, far above the ground. Once she had completed her task, she sheathed the knife again and began her descent, coming down as easily as if she had been walking along flat ground.

Upon reaching the ground, she held up the item she had recovered, studying it in the light of the torch. A clear red stone shone in her hand, almost the size of a clenched fist. It reflected the torchlight, blazing a bright red.

“Is that what I think it is?” Anubaras asked, almost breathless with wonder.

Ishkinil shook her head. “Nay, it is but cheap coloured glass, made for show. Maybe once a gem was set in the statue, but if so long ago was it replaced.”

“That is most disappointing.”

Ishkinil laughed, a short sound little more than a snort. “Do not trust anyone, especially not cultists who follow ancient horrors. It was one of them, no doubt, who replaced it.” She tossed the red glass towards Anubarak, who tried to catch it, fumbled it and let it drop. The glass eye clattered to the ground, bouncing and rolling towards the great stone bowl, disappearing beneath it.

Anubarak sighed as he watched it go. “For a moment there I thought we might have found the promised great wealth.”

“Great wealth ever leads to naught but trouble, I have found,” Ishkinil told him.

“I think I would be willing to risk it.”

Ishkinil shook her head, though she smiled as she did so. “Then let us press on, to see what else may be here that might satisfy your cravings.”

“Wait, what was that?” Anubarak asked, for he heard the start of a sound. Ishkinil raised her hand, motioning for silence, alert to it as well.

There came to them a soft whispering noise, faint at first, but growing stronger with each passing moment, as if it was drawing nearer. No words there were, but instead what sounded like the rubbing of two surfaces together.

A groaning of stone interrupted the noise and the three statues shuddered and shifted and moved, their raised hands reaching down towards the bowl.

“Balshazu’s teeth,” Anubarak exclaimed as from the great stone bowl black smoke began to flow, spilling over the edge to flow across the floor. All the while a hissing came from it, sizzling in the air.

And from out of it, danger poured.

Swift did Ishkinil react at the first hint of danger, and into shadows retreated, her cloak billowing thick around her. White-blue flames danced along Dirgesinger’s length as it came to life. Anubarak backed away, behind Ishkinil, his hands flexing on the hilt of his sword, tightening and relaxing.

The smoke rolled and gathered, rising up like great waves, higher, and higher still, near to the ceiling of the cavern. Within its stygian gloom, a figure began to form, one far from human, for it was long and sinuous, more snake than man, or a blend of both, with cold yellow eyes and tongue that flickered from between fangs. To the heights of the statues it rose, and began to coil around one of them, great scaly loops that flowed in and around. A sibilant hiss came from it, though it spoke not.

“What is it?” Anubarak asked, his eyes wide at the sight of the creature of smoke and shadows, one that solidified into a more mortal aspect as they watched, one of flesh and scales.

“That I do not know,” Ishkinil replied, her voice calm. “Some manner of beast summoned forth from the void and the darkness, yet fashioned into a more mortal form, for from whence they come, they have no physical body.”

The beast reared back and its head swayed, tongue tasting at the air. “Where then,” it whisper-hissed, “Are the promised sacrifices? Summon me not without that which was promised or suffer for it.” It’s head swung lower and lower, down towards where Ishkinil and Anubarak stood. From it came a low, rumbling hum and its great yellow eyes loomed large, almost hypnotic in their gaze. Anubarak found himself drawn to them, unable to take his eyes from them, mesmerised by the eyes and the noise. A slumberous warmth settled on him, thoughts and desires seeping away.

The snake-beast’s head drew level with Ishkinil, and full on her focused its gaze, close enough that its flickering tongue almost touched her face. Yet she laughed in response, and Dirgesinger crooned as she unleashed it, the blade scoring deep across the beast’s snout. Not blood was it that seeped forth from the wound, but black smoke instead, and the beast reared back, its sibilant tones deeper, more strident.

“Thou, a petty bug, would dare strike me?” came the rumbling voice of the beast. “Long shall your suffering be for such an affront.”

When once more the beast’s head came down, it struck with speed, mouth opened to reveal gleaming ivory fangs, ones that dripped with black venom. Shadow on shadow it came, a blur to the eye, yet Ishkinil rolled aside as the fangs struck, hitting stone instead of flesh. A pool of darkness was left where the fangs hit, and an acrid smell rose into the air, as well as a sizzling sound.

Ishkinil rolled back to her feet, sword singing even as she did. Once more it lashed across the snake-beast, bringing forth a flow of smoke. Yet for all that it did, little effect it appeared to have upon the foe, hampering it not. It uncoiled itself from around the statue and dropped to the ground, its vast bulk terrifying to behold. It slithered forward, and as it did, it brushed aside ancient stone formations, shattering stalagmites and columns. Anubarak scurried out of the way as shards of stone were flung about, yet the beast appeared to have eyes only for Ishkinil, who had struck it and for whom its hate was focused.

With the shadows woven about her, she was hard to spot in the gloom of the cavern. She moved with swift grace between the stone formations, moving one way and then the other, always just beyond the reach of the beast. Anubarak sneaked around behind it, keeping an eye out for the lashing tail as it shattered stone in its wake. Over to the statues he ran, up onto the dais, to where Ishkinil’s torch still rested against the leg of one of the statues. He snatched it up, for fear that in the clash that it would be extinguished and that they would be plunged into the dark, easy prey for the beast.

Fear gripped him tight as he watched from his vantage point, too afraid to get closer. Against the beast, his sword seemed a pitiful thing, of no use. If Dirgesinger could do little, his blade would do less. In the tunnel there might be refuge due to the size of the beast, for it appeared too large to fit, yet much as he wished to run for the safety of it, that would require abandoning Ishkinil. In time, all would receive a visit from Enkurgil when they breathed their last; Anubrak doubted he would be well pleased by one who abandoned his handmaiden.

Even so, he could not help but to slowly move away from the dais, towards the exit, in preparation should Ishkinil fall and he needed to run. If she did, only then would he run, and not before.

More than once during her dance among the cavern had Ishkinil scored blows upon the beast, the place now largely ruined, with scattered, broken stone formations littering the ground. Still Ishkinil danced on, from one place to the next, avoiding sudden strikes, Dirgesinger crooning each time it struck, yet never did it seem to hinder the beast made of smoke and darkness.

Then, all abrupt, Ishkinil came to halt, for reasons Anubarak could not see. On the far side of the chamber she stood, barely seen, just a glimmer of white-blue flames among the shadows. The snake-beast reared up, ready to strike, and Anubarak turned his head aside, for he could not stand to watch the inevitable.

On to Chapter Two – Light against the Shadows