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 reach 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 wind swept 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. He 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 towards the gates through the pass, alongside the now lost river, to where gates had once stood. Now they were gone and the way through stood open.
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“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 scared 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 born 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 banner would have 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.”