Enter the Dusk

(A work in progress)

Prologue

The crimson sun shimmered low on the horizon, bathing the desert in bloody light. Heat rose from the ground as if the ochre earth itself were on fire. No breeze disturbed the deadly landscape and the only sign that life even passed through was a winding trail that snaked its way towards toward pinnacles that reared up out of the sand like tombstones.

The Zandra rode her black stallion along the trail without disturbing so much as a stone. To her, as to all of her kind, death was a constant companion. She surveyed her surroundings with the keen eye of one trained to miss nothing, her dirty blonde hair falling to her waist in thin, braided locks interwoven at her scalp with long ribbons. The strands of silk flickered loose around her head as she moved like a multi-coloured halo. Fixed at her waist was a decorated sword and her fingers danced at the jewelled hilt, just waiting for the silence to be broken.

As if on cue, a wild whinny erupted from her stallion, but the Zandra remained unshaken. She leaned forward to stroke his neck, but her eyes stayed up and alert. Several tattered braids fell around her face and she tossed them over her shoulder with a practised flick of her head. The horse’s neck muscles quivered under her touch, unable to be soothed.

“Easy, there boy,” she said, brows knitted together in a wary frown. She dismounted and brought the reins over the stallion’s head to lead him, but the horse barely took two steps when he whinnied again and reared onto his hind legs. The Zandra dropped the reins and drew her sword, allowing her horse to flee. With her free hand, she reached into her hair and ripped a ribbon from among her matted braids, not flinching as several strands of hair tore out with it. Every muscle in her body tightened as she raised her weapon and waited.

Suddenly, the temperature dropped and the afternoon light was snuffed out. A dense and eerie mist rolled in to swirl around her ankles.

“Come on,” the Zandra snarled, her breath now forming frosty puffs. “There’s no point hiding.”

For a long time, nothing moved.

Then came a voice like a blade on stone.

Leave! it hissed.

The Zandra adjusted her grip on her sword, but stood her ground.

Leave me to my business! came the voice again.

The Zandra turned in a slow circle. “Your business is my business now.”

A cruel, jarring laugh cut through the air and the owner of the voice came into sight. It was human in shape, but warped like a shadow or a memory of something that used to be alive. It moved as if composed of dark liquid encased in flesh, flowing slowly but deliberately toward the Zandra until it loomed over her, absorbing what little light remained.

If you knew what I am, you would not be so eager to fight me.

The Zandra snorted a derisive laugh. “You know, I was about to say the same thing.”

With an unearthly scream, the being lunged at her, its wrath-like fingers solidifying into sharp claws. The Zandra brought her sword up to block it, and as metal struck the ghostly flesh, light flashed and the creature screeched in fury. It recoiled then lunged a second time, scoring a deep gash in the Zandra’s cheek, but she ducked away smoothly before more damage could be done.

Again and again the being attacked, but each time the Zandra deflected the blows.

You’ll tire yourself with defensive moves, little woman, cackled the creature, swinging for her stomach.

The Zandra merely grunted as she blocked the swipe. Sweat and blood poured down her face, steaming off her skin in the unnatural, icy air. She was clearly tiring of the physical battle, but she fought in more ways than the creature could see. As she fought with the sword in her right hand, in her left she knotted and twisted the ribbon she’d torn from her hair, muttering under her breath until finally, with an ear-splitting battle cry, the Zandra threw aside her sword and charged the creature. In one flowing movement, she snatched up its arm, looped her knotted, twisted ribbon around its shadowy wrist and pulled a final knot tight to close the circuit.

A blackness darker than night descended and surrounded the being then, and it yowled and writhed like a dying beast as the darkness began to consume it. Though it fought, it was rendered powerless by the magic binding its wrist. The darkness closed in, tighter and tighter, shrinking the creature with it, until it disappeared altogether.

The Zandra stared at the space the being had occupied, exhausted and out of breath. As she dragged a hand across her sweaty brow, the air grew warmer and lighter again, and the black stallion came wandering back from wherever he had fled. He sidled up to his mistress and gently nuzzled her shoulder, which was now covered in blood that ran freely from the gash in her cheek.

“I’m fine, Jett,” she said, rubbing his neck in return. “It barely scratched me.” She glanced around, massaging her sword arm. “You didn’t see where I threw my sword, did you?”

As the mist cleared, she found her weapon, sheathed it in the jewelled scabbard at her waist, then took up her horse’s reins once more.

“Come on, boy,” she said solemnly. “Let’s see if we have a survivor before I clean myself up. That Spirit didn’t come here for nothing.”

She continued down the narrow trail, which eventually wound in between the giant stone pinnacles like a path through a graveyard. The difference here was that the dead had not been buried – five men lay on the ground, all with horrific wounds, faces contorted permanently with the pain of their deaths.

“I should have travelled this way earlier,” the Zandra whispered and tugged five ribbons from her hair. She knelt beside the first man and pressed her ear to his chest, checking for a heartbeat, but came up with a shake of her head. After folding the man’s arms across his chest, she tied a ribbon to his wrist and muttered an incantation. The Zandra repeated this ritual for each of the deceased men, the tenderness of her approach a stark contrast to the ferocity with which she battled the Spirit only moments earlier.

Eventually, she stood and surveyed the bodies, rubbing her temples as if deciding what to do next. It was then that a wet, choking cough erupted from behind another rock, away from the other men.

The Zandra ran to the sixth man and knelt beside him, working frantically as he moaned and struggled to breathe.

“Daughter,” he moaned.

“Don’t speak, my battle-weary brother,” the Zandra urged. “I will guide your passing.”

“No – not… not you,” he choked out. “My daughter… please!”

The Zandra leaned close to the man’s face. “What about her, brother?”

The man shook as if it took all his remaining strength to speak. “She’s alone – find her, please!”

“You are entrusting her to me, brother, as per the Ancient Writ of the Sisters?”

The man whispered his last word, “Yes,” then became still.

“I’ll do everything in my power, brother warrior,” the Zandra said. She bound his wrist as she had the other men, then sat back on her heels, unable to keep the smile from her face. “At last. I’ll get to meet her at last!”