The horses stood in the middle of the room, turning their gaze upon Vanas. The stallion shook his head and snorted and Vanas shrank back against the wall near to the door. His heart pounded in his chest, uncertain what to do, and fearful for it. Left alone, in the gloom and the shadows, with none but the horses for company, he was not happy. He would not have said Ishkinil was good company to be around, for she spoke seldom, and when she did it was to the point, but he relied upon her for protection. With her gone, he felt vulnerable in a way that he had not done so before. The old tower might appear abandoned, but his mind could not help but to race to thoughts of what might lurk still in the shadows and dark place, that might creep forth with Ishkinil gone.
In an attempt to take his mind from his concerns, he walked over to where his stallion stood. It had been the fastest horse in his stables. Not exactly conspicuous, Ishkinil had told him, yet unmatched for speed. If needs be, it could outrun any pursuer.
His fingers fumbled at the straps of the saddle bags, pulling it open. Even in the dim light the contents seemed to gleam. Great piles of silver coins spilt loose within, and mingled with them were gems and precious stones that caught the scant light seeping in around the door; opals and vivid blue lapis lazuli, carnelian and jade, rubies and emeralds. Ishkinil knew that he carried riches upon him, but not how much. He dipped his hands into the saddlebags, feeling the comforting flow of coins rolling between his fingers. Among the stress and discomfort, it was a welcome reminder of what he had to look forward to.
A little discomfort, Ishkinil had said, and he had to remind himself of that, eyes drinking in the wealth in his hands. He would disappear out into the east, to start afresh, where none knew the name of Vanas the Gilded. He had wealth enough, and more, to start over. Not as much as he once had, it was true, but he would not want, and ever there were opportunities for those with wealth and who knew where to look.
“So this is what you would risk your life for?” spoke a voice softly behind him. Varan jumped at the sound of it, sending silver coins scattering, to bounce and ring upon the stone floor. His heart hammered hard within and his mouth was dry as he stumbled around to face Ishkinil.
She stood behind him, her cold gaze upon him, not on the coins he carried. So intent had he been upon his treasure that he had not heard her return to the tower, not her footsteps nor the door opening.
“Durosi’s Curse, but you startled me,” he exclaimed. “It is nervy enough without you adding to it.
Her answering smile was faint, grim, little more than a twitch of the lips. “More the reason to not allow ourselves to be distracted then,” she told him. “If you wish to survive long enough to enjoy your pretty baubles, you need to forget them, to consider them not to exist. If your focus wavers, then Enkurgil’s grasp may take you into his embrace.”
Vanas shuddered and a chill ran through him as she spoke Death’s true name, one few willingly spoke. Yet the one that he travelled with was said to be the Handmaid of Death himself, and knew his ways as well as man, more so if all the half-whispered rumours spoken in the darkest hours were true. Death stalked the land, and it came in the form of the tall, pale-eyed woman he travelled with, unnerving in her presence, yet one that he had no choice but to accompany. Strange it seemed to him that the Handmaid of Death was the one who sought to keep death at bay.
“What word from outside? He asked, seeking to draw attention away from the treasure in his saddlebags, and to take his mind from the nature of she whom he travelled with.
“They have passed through the gates, but have proceeded no further. Your sins, I fear, have caught up with you. They search, no doubt for your passage and will in time make their way here.”
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A cold touch once more gripped Vanas, the prickle of sweat running along his skin. “We must flee,” he gasped.
“To what end?” Ishkinil asked. “These are hunters who shall not rest, not for as long as their prey remains uncaught. Speak plainly if you wish to live, and say who it was that has set them upon your heels.”
“You know who I am,” Vanas stated, resting his hand upon his stallion for support, for all strength had gone from his legs.
“Vans the Gilded, whom few from Kherash have not heard of I doubt not. Keeper of the Purse for the Vizier of Setna Havor, whose hands flowed with gold and who paved the streets in silver.”
“That is what they say.”
“And is it true?”
Vans shrugged. “In some manner it was, yes, though all was not as it seemed.”
“It is ever so.”
From a pouch at his belt, Vanas extracted a coin, one that he flipped to Ishkinil. Even in the dark she snatched it out of the air without hesitation, holding it aloft to study. The coin was golden and bore upon it the star and sun emblem of Setna Havor, the sorcerous tyrant who ruled Kherash. Her eyes narrowed and she bounced the coin on her palm of her hand, weighing it.
“it is not real,” she said. “At least, not a gold coin as first perceived.
“Aye, that it is,” Vanas agreed, impressed with how swift she had uncovered the truth, for the greatest of forgers had undertaken the task, so skilled that all but a few could detect it. “All done at the vizier’s request, and without the knowledge of Setna Havor.”
“A dangerous game,” she pointed out, flipping the coin back to him. He attempted to catch it, but missed and the coin bounced to the floor.
“Such it always is with wealth and power.”
“Who was it that you fell afoul of it you worked for the vizier himself?”
Vanas laughed, and it was with a bitter irony. “Why, the vizier himself. All that I had done for him and at the first chance he seeks to cast me aside. Perhaps he sought to appease Setna Havor, or it may have been he simply wished to distance himself from his own duplicity. Whatever the case may be, it was he that sent the hunters upon my trail. It was well that I had my own sources amongst his court, was forewarned of danger enough that I had time to escape. Yet his secrets I knew, just as he did mine, and more, I had access to his treasury. This is but a part of that, a small part, enough for my needs, and not a one of them forged. Worse still did he do than mere forgery, deeds that would shrivel the soul of any who heard them. Of these I sent word to Setna Havor himself before I fled. It may transpire that I shall be taken yet, but at least it brings some small comfort to know that the vizier shall precede me to the headsman’s block.”
Ishkinil tilted her head, looking for all the world as if she was listening to words unheard. “No,” she replied after a time, I think that unlikely. If he had taken you as planned, then he would not have been able to set hunters upon your trail.”
“Not unless they were the Red Priests of Dura Sunamu Utza.”
Ishkinil’s face set hard as the stones of the earth, pale eyes becoming as shards of diamonds. In that Vanas could fault her not, for how could one who walked with Enkurgil, The Bringer of Ends, not know of and hate the the priests of The Red Talon, the upstart Lord of Murder for whom Enkurgil natured an irrepressible hatred.
“It would have been for the best that you spoke of this before,” she chided, voice low but hard, “For if they have partaken of the Blood Rites of the Slaying, then it may even be beyond me to forestall them. It may even be for the best that I strike you down now myself, to spare you from what they shall bring should you fall into their hands.
Vanas backed away nervously, holding up his hands in supplication as much as protest. “There is no need for that,” he said, sweating hard, eyes widening in fright.
“It is not in my nature to slay in such a manner, to bring death unwarranted, yet in the end you may beg me for such,” she told him, cold and grim. “The Red Priests do not slay easily, not when they can do so slow and intense.”
“What do you plan to do then?” Vanas asked, despair growing within, a sinking sensation of doubt and dread. That Ishkinil sounded as if she had given up concerned him the most. She was the Handmaiden of Death himself after all, wielder of the dreaded blade Dirgesinger and for of the Red Priests. If she could not stop them, then his days were truly numbered indeed and the wealth he had stolen was for nothing.
“It is simple,” she said, and her smile was one of grim humour. “We die.”