Claws of the Red Talon

© 2023, ANDREW WARWICK

Chapter One – The Gates of Ahkanat

Sun blasted and sand swept, the old road ran between old Ysheral and distant Ver Anat, curving around the craggy heights of Khedar Kar. Upwards the hills climbed, to the east, over fields of scattered scree and fallen boulders, to commanding views where it reached unscalable sheer cliffs, deep red and pallid grey in tone. The shattered stumps of once proud towers crowned the heights, from where they once looked out over the vast salt crusted deserts to the west. Crimson beat the sun down upon the desolate landscape, all but devoid of life, the air shimmering under a shroud of heat.

Two riders made their slow way along the road, picking their way between drifts of windswept sand and tumbled stone, the one in the lead riding a shaggy brown mare, sure footed in its step, while behind rode a proud black stallion, sleek and powerful, tossing its head and less certain in its step.

Upon the mare a woman sat, riding easy in the saddle, one of darkest hair and palest eyes. Mail shirted she was, despite the heat, while a black cloak rested upon her shoulders, one so dark it appeared more like a shadowed cloud. Warily she gazed about as they rode, ever vigilant and alert for danger, up the rock-strewn slopes beside them, along the road ahead, and ever out into the deserts. Her hand rested light upon the white bone hilt of the long sword at her side.

The rider behind her did not match the stallion he rode, for he was a rotund man, red faced and sweating in the heat. His dark hair and beard were matted and unkempt, and he wore faded and ill-fitting robes of plain white, now stained red from dust and sweat. He dabbed at his face with a scented cloth of silk, an incongruity compared with his general look. He stared ahead resolutely, with a mixed look of fear and disdain, not at all easy upon the back of the stallion, all legs and arms. The stallion, as if sensing the uncertainty of his rider, struggled for control. Bulging saddle bags hung from the sides of the stallion, ones that clinked and rattled with each step it made.

The road rose and curved around a spur that jutted out into the deserts from the hills of Khedar Kal, the view ahead opening up before them as they crested the rise. A pass opened up between the hills off to their right, a broad plain leading to it, the hills rising once more on the far side. Once a river had run through the pass, across the plains and out into the desert, but now no waters flowed in it and all was dried out and sand choked.

“Behold, the Gates of Ahkanat,” the woman spoked, reining in her mount so that they could study the view. “Here once armies battered themselves into ruins upon its walls, and even the hosts of Arys under Apuler struggled in vain to breach it, his endless hordes coming to naught.”

The man looked down into the pass as his horse halted alongside the woman’s mare, to see an ancient wall of stone built across it. Still formidable it appeared despite long having been abandoned, in parts crumbled into ruin, spilling giant stones onto the plain beneath it. An old stone roadway made its way through the pass, alongside the now lost river, to where gates had once stood. Now they were gone and the way through stood open.

“Who, Ishkinil?” he asked of the woman.

She looked not at him as she urged her mare onwards, down the road they followed, to join up with the stone one below. “Great empires of times long ago, Vanas,” she said. “Now all that remains of them are memories upon the wind-blown sands, yet when once they stood, proud and strong, few there were that could stand against them, and they vowed that their kingdoms would never fall.”

The man, Vanas, shrugged in indifference, for it concerned him not, less so than the heat and the sand that plagued him.

They made their way down onto the plain, to the old road, and headed towards the walls. It grew more imposing still, with the stones that made up its might twice the height of a man. Towers stood upon the walls, and on the slopes of the hills above it, pitted and scarred with battle and long ages spent exposed to the harsh elements of the desert winds.

The old road alongside the river had once been constructed from broad grey stones, interlocked together, though they had likewise bore the scars of neglect and indifference. Those that had constructed it had long since vanished into ancient history and their works were now chipped and uneven, some stones missing and others in part sunk as the ground had shifted beneath them. Banks of sands rolled down its length, curled and tugged at by the winds. Statues had once stood along its length on the approach to the gates, mighty things of glistening white stone. Few now remained intact, with shattered limbs or missing heads, and none had features recognisable, for they had been scoured clean by the sands.

Long shadows were cast before the might of the walls, and they rode into the gloom of them, staring up higher still at their imposing heights, where once great banners would have been cast aloft, caught by the winds to stream out into full view of those below.

“I like this not,” Vanas said, his look nervous as he glanced upon the walls, the parapets crumbled and spilled, half fearing that even so men would appear atop the walls to obstruct their passage.

“Ghosts are all that remain here,” Ishkinil responded, but even so, Vanas could see that her hand never strayed far from the hilt of her sword. “Ghosts and memories. It was you that wished to do this,” she pointed out, turning in her saddle so that she could look back upon him. Her pale eyes were cold and considering as they met his dark ones.

Not long could he hold that stare and his eyes dropped down. He nodded, sweat standing out upon his brow and across his scalp were dark hair thinned. He dabbed at it again with his scented silk cloth, lamenting the heat and discomfort. “Could we not have taken an easier path?” he asked, “Travelled in more comfort?”

“This way is safer,” Ishkinil responded and turned back to look upon the way ahead. “You know who hunts you, Vanas. Speed is of the essence, aye, and subterfuge too. Who would now recognise you as Vanas the Gilded? None, I would dare say, even among those who knew you well. Is not a little discomfort preferable to the loss of your life?”

Vanas shifted uncomfortably at the memory of why he was in the company of the woman, the reason for the journey. “Mayhap when all this is done, I shall reflect on it so, but for now the discomfort outweighs all.”

“Then you have not experienced true discomfort. This is merely a mild inconvenience, more so compared to what will be done to you should your hunters catch you.”

The gates that had once graced the walls, mighty, indestructible, were no more. The road ran on through, wide enough so that a dozen chariots could ride abreast. Darkness greeted them, a deep tunnel that led through the wall, a gloom that seemed to shroud when compared to the bright light of the desert sun that shone at the far end, a glare of gold and crimson.

Vanas dabbed at his face again as they arrived at the gates, eyes nervously drifting up again. Stones seemed to perch precariously above, seemingly poised to fall on those below. “What if they are waiting for us beyond?” he asked.

“Then we will deal with them when we meet them, but I think it is not likely,” Ishkinil replied. “Doubtful it is that any after you would be ahead of us yet.”

So saying, she walked her mare into the cast tunnel and the dark. Vanas’ mount, perhaps having picked up on his unease and discomfort, pawed at the ground, almost reluctant to follow. It tossed its head and turned about and as it did so, Vanas caught sight of a cloud of dust rising from the road that led out into the desert.

“Ishkinil!” he cried, seeking to bring his stallion back under control.

From out of the tunnel Ishkinil emerged at his cry, and in her hand she wielded a long sword of white, almost like bleached bone, upon which ran eldritch lettering in silver. The air about it seemed stilled and cold.

She stared ahead at the approaching dust, her eyes as cold as her sword. “We need to ride,” she said, wheeling her horse about. “The hunters come. Ride. Now.”

She kicked her horse forward and it surged into the tunnel and the dark. Vanas needed no more encouragement, for a chill hand had grasped his heart and his sweat now ran cold. He wrestled with the stallion, forcing it to follow. He heard it pound forward, its hooves clattering on stone beneath its feet, the sound echoing through the tunnel. He saw ahead of him the silhouette of Ishkinil, her shadowed cloak streaming behind her, framed against the light streaming in through the far end of the tunnel.

Then they were out through it, once more into the eye-piercing sunlight. The empty river that had run beneath the walls snaked out before them, into barren lands, of broken hills and rocky fields. Around them, sheltered beneath the walls, a town had once stood, but now it sat abandoned, with sand stalking the streets and flat roofed buildings, many of which were all but submerged beneath it. So too was the road buried, while great drifts of sand lapped against the base of the gigantic walls that guarded the pass. While the road ran out across the stony wastes beyond, a smaller trail headed south, up into the hills of Khedar Kal.

Ishkinil turned at once after they had emerged, leading her shaggy mare up into the hills along the lesser trail, one that Vanas felt was suited more for a goat than a horse, let alone a horse and rider. Still, he had little choice but to follow, for he did not wish to be left behind on his own.

“Where are you leading us?” he shouted out as she rode through the sand clogged streets, between crumbling buildings of grey stone.

“A place of shelter, of safety,” she called back over her shoulder. “I do not believe we can outrun whoever trails us, if it is us that they are indeed seeking, not across the lands ahead.”

From among the ruins of the town, they climbed up, following a trail that twisted among the crags, steep in parts, where a single misstep could see them tumbling down into ruin. There Vanas saw that lesser walls had once been built, atop the ridge of the hills, these of red mud bricks, that had crumbled and fallen, and towers too, those that they had spotted from the other sides of the hills, that looked out over the deserts. The Gates of Ahkanat fell away behind them and soon were lost to view.

At last the rough old trail led them to a place hidden amongst the hills, where a round tower of stone sprouted, the stone of its construction white unlike any other that they had seen previous. It had broken near its summit, with masonry fallen around it, so that it appeared to wear a misshapen crown. Yet despite that, it still appeared strong and sturdy.

Ishkinil swung lightly down from her mount as they reached it, her sword still in hand. She moved forward with a silent, smooth step, gliding like a hunting beast stalking its prey, to where a door was set in the base of the tower, one of black wood bound with bands of iron.

With great caution she took a hold of the door with her free hand and eased it open, not stepping forth into the opening as she did, for she did not wish to make a target of herself. With the wariness born of long experience, she snuck a quick glance in through the door, just for a moment, before pulling back again. She seemed to relax as she did, for she was no longer as cagey, no longer coiled with tension, as she had been as she approached.

Motioning towards Vanas to follow, she slipped into the tower, silent as a ghost, shadow cloaked. Vanas dismounted unsteadily, landing heavily upon the ground. He wiped at his brow before waddling inside to join Ishkinil.

He found the warrior woman standing inside, sword in hand, looking around the interior of the tower. Webs bedecked the walls, and dust shrouded the floor, but little else could see as his eyes became used to the gloom within.

A central pillar ran up to the roof from the centre of the room, into which had been built a fireplace. No signs of stairs could be seen winding up to parts of the tower above, even though the roof was too low for the room to be all that was in the tower.

“What of the horses?” he asked, voice soft, as the place unsettled him.

“They can come in here, with us,” Ishkinil responded. With a last look around, she sheathed the bone white sword in a scabbard of black at her side. Then she slipped out through the doors again, before leading in the two horses, one by one. Once all were inside, she pulled the door shut, plunging the room into near dark, for the only light that seeped in came from cracks around the door. In the dark of the room, it was cool compared to the oppressive heat outside. It did not settle Vanas at all, the dark seeming to make the walls close in closer than they were.

“Leave the horses saddled,” Ishkinil instructed Vanas, “For we may have need to leave in a hurry. For now, keep quiet, and watchful and do not move. I am heading out, to scout around, to see the lay of the land and to see if I can spy upon those who were on the road, to determine if they are foe or not.”

Thus saying, she slipped back outside, taking care to make sure the door was shut behind her again, leaving Vanas alone with the horses in the dark.

On to Chapter Two – The Troubles of Vanas the Gilded