The body of Vanus lay still upon the floor, his face one of deathly pallor. No breath was upon his lips, nor hint of movement. To all he appeared as dead. The raven hovered above his body, and between its claws hung a glowing sphere of light, small enough to be clasped in a fist. Golden it was for the most, and yet through it were thick, dark streaks of red and even black, streaks that shifted and snaked across the surface, roiling over it.
“He has not the purest of souls,” the raven croaked.
“No, but it is not ours to judge,” Ishkinil replied.
“Even so, few would miss this one,” the raven went on. “Easy it would be to leave him this, to send his soul into the halls of Enkurgil so that he could be judged.”
“True, but we are not Red Priests to take a life so.”
There was an element to what he said, that Vanas would likely not be missed, and more, he had done much evil in his life. Death had not called for him yet, and so he lived, and she would honour that even if she felt little for the man himself.
The raven croaked a laugh and beat its wings, flying over to Ishkinil, there to hover again. She reached out and took the sphere from out of its claws, holding it upon the palm of her hand. “We do not have long before his bond is ever sundered and it is beyond our power to restore.” She closed her hand around the sphere, squeezing it tight. When once more she opened it, the light of the sphere had faded, and what she held appeared as a dirty, streak stained pearl, one chipped and worn and tarnished, not fit for much use. She rolled it between her thumb and forefinger before stowing it away in a pouch at her side for safekeeping.
Dropping back down through the opening in the floor, swift she clambered back down the iron rungs to the ground below. Once more she drew Dirgebringer, the fires within no longer showing, and crept towards the door. With an abundance of caution, she inched it open, peering out through the gap she had made.
From where she stood, she could see back along the path along the ridge of the hills, to where it had come from the Gates of Ahkanat. Along it walked three men, most ordinary in appearance, with dark hair and simple tunics and trousers of pale woven cloth. For any other they would appear as but simple travellers, their allegiances and purposes unknown, but to one attuned to the ways of death, she could see their true self, as the bloody red talon hung above them, unseen to any other.
One of the three ran on ahead, his head lowered, scouring the ground and sniffing like a hound, tracking a path. His head lifted up and he looked around, and Ishkinil could see, even at a distance that he appeared uncertain.
The trail they followed, the blood they tracked, had been cut from them and no more could they follow it. The man stopped, standing up straight, awaiting the arrival of his companions. When they had joined him, they began to converse, one looking towards the tower and pointing to it. Shadows grew thick about Ishkinil as she drew them in around herself, shrouding, obscuring so that no chance there was that any of the Red Priests could spot her through the opening in the doorway.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
It looked like the three came to some decision and pressed forward, heading for the tower itself, no doubt to inspect it. Even if she was able to hide herself from them, there was the matter of the horses still, for they would give away the presence of someone being in the vicinity. And more, if they searched and found Vanas’ body, they would make certain that he was dead, just to be sure. Confrontation could not be avoided.
Dirgesinger in hand, she pulled open the door and stepped forth, out into the burning rays of the crimson sun. There she stood, before the tower, shadows billowing around her like they were being tugged at by a strong wind, one that did not blow.
The three Red Priests stopped as she showed herself, starting at her.
“By Dura Sunama Utza, it is she!” one exclaimed as understanding dawned upon his face, recognition of whom they saw. At his words, their postures and appearances changed, throwing aside their illusions. No longer were they masked as innocent travellers, for mimicry and deception were in their bones, and their outfits became the colour of blood, sleeveless vest belted around the waist, trousers that reached down to the knees and sandals upon their feet. Each drew from their belts a long-bladed knife, red and serrated. They spread out before Ishkinil, assuming fighting stances, low to the ground.
The central of the three, standing a hand taller, and broader across his shoulders and chest, pointed towards Ishkinil with his dagger. “How come you to be here, thrall of death? Not by chance alone, not when the appointed prey that we hunt is so near. His blood drew us on, his scent was in our nostrils, a rich offering, and now it is no more. What have you done with him?”
Loud was the laugh that answered them, one filled with mocking edges. “Little but to put him beyond your feeble reach, or would the petty servants of an impotent upstart seek to challenge the Bringer of Ends for what is rightfully his?”
The Red Priest snarled in response, his eyes hate filled. “You have not slain him, for you lack the courage for that. You have not tasted the joys of a death given in the way it is intended. You have not felt the life force fade beneath your hands for no reason other than to enjoy the experience. He lives still, of that I am sure. Now shall you die, but before that comes to be you shall reveal all unto me.”
Ishkinil reached deep within, yet not within herself, but through Dirgesinger, seeking out through the touch of the mystical, unearthly blade for the halls beyond where Enkurgil dwelt. Grim grew her face, and grimmer still, become as a mask that showed the true nature and majesty of the Bringer of Ends, white as death, white as bone. Taller still she seemed, and a laugh came forth; not from her lips did it spill, but from Dirgesinger, a laugh as deep as the halls beyond, a laugh not of the world and in it was carried the echoes of eternity, and of doom, within it the deep and sonorous peal of far off bells.
The three Red Priests faltered in their steps at her sudden change, a rim visage of the reaper and bringer of ends, fear shrouded.
Forward she stalked towards them, and each step was as the passing of an age, in which mountains were cast down and other raised on high, and dust was upon the lands. Colourless her eyes had become, as pits in the wells of eternity in which stars were born and flared to life, only to fade and die once more. Ever came the echoes of laughter from Dirgesinger as the raven burst forth from the tower, to hover above her head on broad wings, a shadowed portent of doom.
“Come now,” she spoke, and within her voice was another, one deeper, older, endless. “Cone now, if you dare, or craven ever be.”
Then, with cries for blood and with Dura Sunama Utza’s name upon their lips, the Red Priests responded and surged forward to attack.