The pool of waters bubbled before Ishkinil as she knelt beside them, pale eyes inspecting it. A foul scent arose from it, stronger as each bubble rose to the surface and popped, the scent of death and madness contained within. Across the surface of the waters, a slick spread, a swirl of colours that were churned up with each bubble. Reeds had once grown thick around the edges of the pool but now they were withered and dead, while fish floated among the reeds. The only life that remained were the buzzing of insects that had been drawn to the death.

Ishkinil rose to her feet, looking around at her surroundings. The pool was sheltered in a small copse of trees and grass, a hidden gem among the wastelands. Above, in the pale sky, the crimson sun shone down bright and harsh, the rocky wastes beyond shimmering in the heat and light.

A man stood with Ishkinil, slight and stooped, his skin weathered and dark wearing simple robes of unstained linen, those of a simple man. Ishkinil stood a head taller than he, clean and strong of limb, a shadowed cloak resting on his shoulders and a sword at her hip, the hilt of white bone.

“It is as you can see, O Lady of Shadows,” the man was saying, “Death has come to the waters. Not just these, but others too have succumbed to the malady. Where once we had enough for our people, our herds and our crops, bow we are reduced to but the one, and all suffer. Should that too succumb then all shall perish, as enough have already.”

“How long has this been going on?” Ishkinil asked, eyes narrowing as once more she turned her gaze upon the waters.

“Two moons now,” the man replied, dry-washing his hands together. “When first the Well of Silver Stars began to turn bad, we thought not too much of it, for it was but one source of water, and the least of those we have, but as each one followed, concern grew. Most fortunate was your coming to us, for your deeds have travelled before you on the desert winds.”

“It is best not to listen to rumours that run fleeting, for seldom do they match what is.

“But you are she that walks beside Death,” the man pressed on, “And here is Death come upon us.”

“Not of Enkurgil’s hand is this,” Ishkinil responded. Once more she squatted down beside the edge of the pool. “Death there might be here, of means unnatural, yet no sorceries I detect either. This comes from sources elsewhere. I shall do all that I can to aid you, Heshberu, but no promises I make.”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

From her side she drew her sword, Dirgesinger, its blade bone-white and cold as death, with flowing silver script along its length. Heshberu shrank back at the sight of it, for many were the rumours of that mystical blade, of its origin and purpose, and though its wielder was a woman of honour, the blade itself still provoke fear.

She dipped the tip of the blade into the bubbling water, and stirred it around. The waters forth at the touch of it, and white-blue flames leap along the length of Dirgesinger, burning up the film across the surface of the water near to it. She pulled the sword clear and the waters calmed to an extent, still bubbling but no longer in a frantic reaction.

“Not sorcery, no,” she said, “But dark still.” Her head came up at a sound nearby, in among the trees and bushes, eyes intent as they searched out for the source of the disturbance.

A flap of shadowed wings came to them as a raven circled down from above, to land upon her shoulder.

“Beware,” it croaked, “For a drake is upon us.”

Heshberu let out a cry of despair, falling back behind Ishkinil. The tall warrior woman, her face set grim, stood up again, dropping into a fighting stance, resting lightly upon her feet, both hands upon the hilt of Dirgesinger. A drake, a beast of the deserts, was of much concern, even to one of her skills and arts.

The sound in the undergrowth grew louder, of crashing and snorts and then a tree shattered before them as a beast came ploughing through. The size of a horse it was, but stouter and stockier, a thing of rusty brown scales designed to blend in with the deserts, and wicked spikes, of claws and fangs. Froth gathered and bubbled at its mouth and its long tail lashed behind it.

“It has drunk the waters,” the raven said, “And death and madness have taken it.”

Crazed by thirst, the beast had succumbed to it, to drink from waters it could sense were tainted, yet with no other choices available to it. The tainted waters had seeped into its mind and its bones, and with it agony unending and thirst that could not be quenched.

The beast pawed at the ground, raising its head and letting out an agonised howl, eyes bloodshot and maddened. Then it lowered its head and thundered forward, churning up the ground, claws ripping and tearing. Great globules of froth sprayed as it shook its head, as if trying to dislodge a troublesome fly.

From her shoulder, the raven took off into the air, black wings beating. Shadows drew in closer around Ishkinil as she touched on the powers of death that flowed through her sword, as the blue-white flames along its length grew fiercer yet. Grim was face, stern and unyielding, and her eyes were like diamonds. Her ground she stood as the fearsome, maddened beast thundered on, ready to meet its charge.