With a wild howl of apprehension, the three Shahadi apparitions scattered as Anubarak neared them, heading around the outside of the shadowed cage that kept them trapped within, seeking to stay out of reach of the golden sword that they feared. Ishkinil remained standing in the centre of it all, unmoving, her eyes afire. The apparitions reacted not to her, only to the golden sword, as if they saw her not.
Anubarak fixed his focus upon one of them and stalked towards it, slow and methodical, readying his sword to strike. He knew how to handle it, more or less, having been trained in its use as was befitting his station in life, but never before had he swung in anger, and nor against a foe that it kind was trying to do him harm. He was, he knew, at best an indifferent student of the art of swordsmanship, and yet the apparitions were reacting to him as if he was the most dangerous swordsman alive, such was their fear of the sword. It was an experience both exhilarating and daunting, for if they found out how lacking his skills were, they might change their reactions to him, no longer so afraid.
“Beware behind,” Ishkinil called out, for even as he had fixed on the one, the others had silently floated around behind him and were seeking to strike at his exposed back.
Anubarak swung around, his sword blazing as he swept it through the air, driving the Shahadi back. As they retreated back towards the corners of the cage, he once more turned back on the one he was stalking.
Closing in on it, he unleashed a wild slash, almost pulled off balance for he was not accustomed to the weight, or lack their of, of the sword. Narrowly did the strike miss. As he righted himself, the Shahadi, with no options opened to it but fight, launched its own attack, long arms clawing towards him.
Anubarak half stumbled back, frantically bringing the sword up to block the blow. Golden blade met shadowed flesh and sliced through it, sending a hand spinning off and tore a scream from the Shahadi. A reverse blow from the sword cut through the cowering foe, meeting little resistance as it sliced. The Shahadi fell apart. No blood came from it, for it was not a thing of flesh, not in the realm between life and death they found themselves in. Instead it withered away and faded out, fading into nothing.
Hope surged through Anubarak, and pride, for he had not expected so easy a victory against a foe which such a reputation. Once more he turned to where the other two remained.
“Why is it that they use not their dark arts?” he asked of Ishkinil, “Nor show much skill at arms?”
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“Here they have not victims to draw strength from, no tortures to perform to charge their sorceries. But do not underestimate them yet. Long have they slumbered here, their skills and memories rusty. Given long they will regain it. You must haste else that happen.”
A tinge of concern came upon Anubarak at her words and he pushed on, driven by it, for he did not wish to match blades with a truly awaken Shahadi. A second of them did he focus on, and moved towards it, trying to heard it up against the shadowed cage, there to trap it, to strike it down. Yet the two remaining Shahadi, having seen what had happened to the first, had changed their tactics. With screeching howls, the two came at Anubarak, seeking to flank him, their fears of the golden sword for now suppressed by the need to get at the wielder.
Sorceries they might no longer have, nor weapons, but their arms were long and claws sharp and as they slashed towards Anubarak, he backed away step by step, desperately flailing with his sword, seeking to parry the clawing blows. As he turned towards one, the other came at him, forcing him to turn once more to face the new threat. Together they were forcing him back, cornering him as he had sought to do to them. Though lack skill, he knew enough about the flow of combat to know that in time they would overwhelm him. Doubt began to rise in him, the cold worms of it stirring in his belly. They would take him down and the world would be their playground.
As if sensing his flagging morale, Ishkinil spoke out. “You can do this,” she said. “I believe you have it in you.”
Once more the words of the woman, the Handmaiden of Death, stirred him to action. He let out a loud cry, a release of all his emotions in one solid sound and changed tactics. His reversed his retreat and charged full on at one of the Shahadi, slashing at it in an attempt to overwhelm it. The golden blade burned through the creature, once, twice, thrice, tearing t apart.
Then he span, leaving the body to full and fade, just as a clawed hand came sweeping down. He felt pain blossom across his face as it scored his face, cold beyond imagining. The pain ripped through his body, lancing deep and he screamed. The face of the Shahadi lit up at the sound, an almost rapturous look upon it. Pain was the key, and in pain it revealed. Darkness began to grow around the creature's hands, the start of pain derived sorceries.
His body shaking at the agonies that transfixed him, Anubarak lashed out in desperation, just as chains of dark sorceries snaked his way, seeking to bind him. He golden blade tore through the arcane energies, shattering them.
His vision blurring, his heart pounding, he pressed on. He could not relent, not give in. Another blow followed, and another, acting more on instinct and training drills that had been hammered into him by instructors than conscious thoughts.
Triumph turned to terror in the Shahad as the blade hacked away at it, cutting through hastily erected sorcerous defences, to rend the flesh, to cut it apart. Only when at last did the creature fall did the pain relent.
Anubarak fell to his knees.
“You did well,” he heard Ishkinil's distant words saying but then there was blackness and he knew no more.