Wild were the eyes of the Red Priests as they charged at Ishkinil, filled with a savage fury, suffused with a hate that could have burnt the world to ash and dust. Endless would it be, for as long as Dura Sunama Utza desired dominion over Enkurgil’s domain. Yet if ever it came to be, death would be a dark and cruel thing, a blight upon the world, ever fuelled by pain and misery, ever strengthening the Red Talon, never giving. The solace of death would be replaced by malice and all would ever be fearful of it.
That Ishkinil could not allow, not as long as she resisted, and so she brought forth the very essence of Death, of Enkurgil, into her and met the frenzied assault head on. Shadows swirled about her as she leapt into the midst of the foe, Dirgesinger ablaze with blue-white flames, fully unveiled, and the sword laughed as it sung, a sound terrible to behold. Swift the blades clashed, sparks leaping at their meeting, to touch and withdraw and strike once more.
Ishkinil danced among them whirling from one to the next, shadowed cloak and dark hair flowing free, her sword feather light in her hands, never still, fleet parries followed by quick strikes of her own. She exalted in it, of life and death flowing within, her heightened senses and the power that she controlled. Heady it was, and she laughed at the sensation of it.
The Red Priest, though, were no mere mortals to be effortless brushed aside, for they had drunk deep of the Blood Rites, empowered by the blood of innocents spilt, and they moved free flowing beyond that of normal man, fearless in battle. Quicker still the combat became, shifting backwards and forwards across the rocky ground as each sought an opening to strike. The raven flashed above, its cries splitting the air as it dove and wheeled, claws and beak seeking to strike at the faces of the Red Priests, to rake their eyes and blind them, forcing them to duck and dart aside, to avoid the black feathered death.
Soon blood touched them all, from minor cuts from strikes that had slipped past defences, to lightly caress the skin. Not enough they were to impair them yet, not with the powers sorcerous and mystical that flowed through them, not enough to drive them from the fight and so on it went, beneath the blazing rays of the crimson sun as sweat rolled down over them.
A rock shifted beneath Ishkinil’s foot as she stepped back to avoid a savage slash. She stumbled, trying to right herself, desperately fending aside a thrust with Dirgesinger. One Red Priest leapt at the sudden opening, eyes flaring with exultant triumph. The dagger stabbed at her exposed side and with a frantic effort she threw herself aside, seeking to avoid it. The blade scraped across her mailed shirt, not enough to break through it but still the impact of the blow stung, driven by the blood fuelled, unnatural strength behind it. She rolled for the ground, striking herself upon the rocks upon it.
Screaming, the raven dove down, racking at the face of the priest, seeking to distract it from Ishkinil as she picked herself up, already fending off the other priests.
Still more savage the fight became, one in which there would be, could be, no surrender. Only by death could it end. With primal fury they hacked at each other, and colder yet the air around Ishkinil as Enkurgil’s might roiled through her, her body strained by the effort of containing it all, charging her to feats beyond the capacity of mortal man.
It was a fight that could not last, not at the intensity that it was being fought at, for the fuel that coursed through their bodies was not without limit. More, Ishkinil knew that these were but some of the Red Priests who hunted Vanas, for other Claws of the Red Talon were present elsewhere, and if any of them came upon the fight she knew that she could not face them all alone.
The strain began to show upon their faces, the strain of battle and holding in the forces that infused them, their breathing laboured. Slower came the strikes, less power behind them, seeking to preserve some strength, though none would break off, and still they thrust and cut and slashed.
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Back towards the tower Ishkinil retreated, step by step, for now her focus was fully upon defence, seeking to keep the viper like strikes at bay, parrying each blow aside, letting the Red Priests exhaust themselves in futile attacks. Only once she had reached the door of the tower, her back to it, did she halt. There she planted her feet and refused to budge anymore, limiting the ways that the Red Priests could come at her.
Deeper still she reached into the wells of the halls beyond through Dirgesinger, into the cold and dark, pushing herself to the very limit of what she could hold within. Darker still the shadows grew, and thicker yet. With a flick of her hand, ribbons of it broke from her cloak, shimmering through the air towards the Red Priests. Daggers cut and thrust, trying to beat aside the shadows that sought to envelope them, to distract them.
With a roar, Ishkinil put all her remaining strength into one mighty strike, Dirgesinger arcing through the air. It struck one of the priests in the neck, the mystical blade aflame as easily it sliced though. For a second, the priest remained standing, only to slump to the ground, head falling free to roll away.
The two remaining priests paused at the death of their companion, then once more they came on, their blades flickering and twisting and striking. Blood now seeped from their eyes, their ears and their noses, the strain of the power that burned within their bodies, fuelling them to unnatural levels, reaching its limits. Shadows swirled all around and dark raven wings flashed, all chaos and fury.
Not long could it last, not long could they push their bodies beyond their limits, and once more Ishkinil was able to slip Dirgesinger through the tiring defence of a wavering priest, his body falling to join the first. Blood pooled upon the rocky ground beneath him. The last priest screamed, a primal sound of mere noise without words, simply a venting of all the hate and fury within him. He leapt at Ishkinil, all thoughts of preservation cast aside, seeking only to bring his dagger to her flesh, to kill.
Her sword flickered and sun and struck, driving deep into his side, yet such was his rage that even so mortal a wound he ignored, clawing forward, grappling her with one hand as he stabbed with his dagger. The blade drove into her mailed shirt at her shoulder. She felt the tip pierce through, the dull throb of pain masked by the cold within. The priest howled, drew back his dagger and tried to stab again but strength fled his limbs as his wound caught up with him. He crumpled to his knees, then toppled forward onto his face, to move no more.
Ishkinil slumped back against the wall of the tower, sliding slowly down to sit against it. She released her hold upon the powers of Enkurgil and a rush of pain flooded her body, her limbs trembling with fatigue, and more. The fires of Dirgesinger died away and the shadows faded until once more she woke but a cloak of black. All the minor cuts she had suffered and the wound to her shoulder prickled and her limbs weighed heavily, no strength remaining in them. Deep she had drunk of the well, too deep, and not all of herself had returned. There was a price to pay, for none could touch Enkurgil’s realm and live, and so with each touch of it she would fade further yet, to die and be no more. That was the bargain made, to do what she did.
The raven came in to land beside her, unruffled despite the ferocious battle that had rolled around before the tower. “They died hard.”
“Aye, yet died they have, and now they will know the truth of who death truly is,” Ishkinil observed, body shaking, her breath tremulous.
“There are more of them still,” the raven said. “This is but one Claw, and ever do they travel with more than one.”
A slow nod came from Ishkinil. “But they are not here, yet. We have bought ourselves some time. We need to hide the bodies, so that none knew what took place here if some investigate, and then we can make our escape.” Slowly she rose back to her feet, legs unsteady still. One by one she took the bodies of the fallen, and with great effort and struggle, she dragged them across to where the hill dropped down steeply, towards the desert below. There did she cast the bodies off, to let them fall and tumble down the slope, far out of sight. Dust and dirt she kicked over the spilt blood, covering it so that to a casual look the area appeared as if none had been there. Only then, when evidence of the battle had been hidden, did she return to the tower, to bring back Vanas from his deathly slumber.