Swift did Ishkinil descend upon her foes, a raptor upon its prey, without thought of defence, for little would it prevail against the sorcerous blades that they wielded. Her blade arced towards the nearest child, white-blue 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 spires of the Karal Sef, 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 from each touch as they scored across the Children. She danced among them, twisting, spinning. Dirgesinger met the Akuan of Khemesh and with each touch 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. He 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 alone was 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 were the lightest touched of the insubstantial sorcerous blades had left its 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.
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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 wats of death, are in fact blind.”
Ishkinil leant 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 cutches 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 Sef, setting grains of sands 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.”