Korkungal’s chamber in the watch-tower was in almost total darkness. The only light was a faint glow of the White Light that oozily penetrated the thick curtain.
Korkungal did not know how long he had lain on the floor near his couch, nor did he care. Klimbah had carried Harmesh away after the fight and had completely ignored him. He did not care about that either. He had been too preoccupied with struggling against the terrible things that attacked him when he collapsed upon the unconscious Harmesh. He had known of the existence of these monsters, they had been the subject of many childhood stories, but he had never before been confronted by them in this way. He had seen them before, certainly; he had seen them many times on the eve of battles, hovering at the edge of vision, always watching for the opportunity to strike and carry off their victims to their horrifying world. But he had managed to spite them by being victorious always in battles and had laughed at them, exulting in his spite, in the manner of a warrior, taunting them with his love of life, of food and drink, of woman. He had swaggered before their memory at the victory feast, condescending as he granted them the vanquished, when secretly he had been really mustering a great number of slain enemies for them in order to placate their desire for him. But they were not to be placated, for their appetite was insatiable – they were the devourers of all life. It was a battle without compromise.
Out of the wall of the Temple had come the Beasts, their breath of fire, their talons tense for tearing: their fire burned but did not scorch; their talons tore but did not wound. From out of the ground came the green-eyed snakes, mouths agap, fangs poised, tongues flickering in anticipation. They wriggled forward, eager but cowardly, for they retreated when sighted. Their poison twisted the bowels and stiffened the neck, but did not kill. From the sky, from the sun, flew down the Sons of the Otherworld. Their skin was scaly and red. They had the heads of animals; all were sturdy and virile, livid with the intention of slaughter, gloating at the prospect of blood. They were armed with axes and knives, which shone with fresh blood, as though they passed from killing to killing without ceasing through all time. And yet their weapons did not kill, though they sank a thousand times into the flesh of their victims. And Korkungal had known this as he struggled with his will against them. Let a hundred of them fail upon his exhausted body and they would leave no mark. But this knowledge did not lessen the terror they struck into Korkungal’s heart. He must struggle against them, for if he did not, if he surrendered his will to them, his very life would ebb away and he would pass into their world, where, eternally helpless, he would twist and scream as the talons that did not wound tore him, and the poison that did not kill convulsed him. He would burn, he would be wracked, torn, consumed in a world without time, while yet he remained whole and conscious. He knew this was possible, for he had seen warriors suffer like this, a living screaming terror that even death could not end...
The sun was low in the western sky, the common hidden in the shadow of the Temple, when he finally came back to himself. He had rolled onto his back and stared up at the turquoise sky, a good colour to return to, and had cried out of relief and gratitude, the tears flowing freely across his cheeks and into his hair. The ground was solid and cool under him, he loved it for its persevering density, and a breeze eddied about his trembling body. The city was quiet, the artisans finished their labour for the day, the warehouses empty of their labourers and the great gate in the wall through which the porters filed endlessly closed for the night. Korkungal thought these last thoughts and was surprised – he would not normally consider the doings of ordinary men, slaves, worthy of his attention. His love of life was all-embracing, all-consuming.
He breathed deeply and felt the torpor fade from his sinews. His joy was overwhelming. He did not triumph, nor did he taunt or swagger. No enemy had been vanquished, no battle won. There would be no celebration this night. He had survived a contest with a younger man armed with superior weapons, that was all.
He was getting old, but he was with himself now and was content.
Then he remembered the White Light and had pushed himself to his feet. He stared down at the shattered spear and the buckled shield and felt, not shame, but acute embarrassment. The contest had grown out of the pride of an older warrior and the arrogance of youth, false and wasteful grounds for a killing. He thought of Harmesh with tenderness, a spoiled youth, not his own man: he had almost killed him today and perhaps he would have to kill him some day in the future.
He walked slowly to the watch-tower, his limbs aching, his throat dry, his hands hanging limply at his sides. No one came to greet him with water or food; no one offered to rub his tired body with oils. He climbed the winding stairs of the watch-tower and stumbled into his chamber. With a sigh he collapsed on to the floor and slept...
Korkungal did not know how long he had lain on the stone floor; nor did he care. Night had come on and the chamber was dark, except for the faint glow at the window. He moved, and grunted because of the stiffness of his limbs. He pushed himself into a sitting position. His hands were strangely numb, his wrists and arms tingling. His whole body shivered with cold. He put his head between his knees.
Ah, he lamented for himself in his loneliness, it is a terrible thing to grow old.
His pity was sweet and he felt less lonely.
Now he took a deep breath and endured the pain as he stood on his feet. His head went hot and he swayed dizzily.
‘You fought well today, Warrior of the Briga.’
Korkungal almost fell over. This dizziness was gone in an instant and was replaced by tremendous shudderings.
‘You were told you had a day of great doings before you, were you not?’
Again Korkungal shuddered. He thought he was dead and in the hereafter. He tried to speak but no words came. He swallowed and tried again.
‘Who speaks?’
‘It is I, Agnanna, the maid.’
‘Where am I?’
‘In your chamber in the watch-tower of the Ka, such being the name they use now. Long ago, it was called the Tower of Bil-La. It was once the Keep of a mighty tribe, now alas gone, their blood mixed through all the tribes of the world...’
‘Where are you?
‘Sitting on your couch. I have waited while you slept, thinking it wiser not to wake you. But you have slept a long time, Korkungal...’
‘Why have you come? Who has sent you?’
‘Do you now remember the promise this morning? You were eager then with anticipation.’
‘Are you Chorsa, the woman at the pond?’
‘I am not.’
‘Are you her daughter?’ There was a merry laugh.
‘I am not, Korkungal.’
‘Her sister?’
‘Neither her sister.’
‘Her niece?’
‘No, not her niece. Oh, Korkungal, you ask so many questions! You would have difficulty in understanding how Chorsa and I are related.’
‘Why did Chorsa not come?’
There was a rustle of clothing.
‘Oh, Korkungal, you are a tenacious man! All these questions! Be satisfied that I have come and ask me no more questions... Now, sit on the couch while I run and get candles.
He caught a fleeting glimpse of movement and heard the pad of bare feet on stone. In a moment he saw a glow on the stairs and she returned bearing a candle in each hand. She pushed them into sockets in the wall above the couch.
‘I have brought food and drink, and ointments to ease your pain, Great Warrior.’
She went and pulled a bundle from a shadowed spot near the window. Korkungal watched her. She seemed little more than a child and her dark skin was lighter than that of the other brown-skinned people he had seen in the Ka. It was pleasant to look at her, though it was true that her garments concealed her natural shape. She wore a cloak of yellow-dyed wool bordered with stars of gold and underneath that a plain vestment of black-dyed linen which fell without dent from her neck to the floor. Her eyes were hazel and lustrous, made vivid by bands of
a black cosmetic painted around them. The rest of her oval face was also heavily made up: carmine lips, rouged cheeks and throat, all liberally dusted with a coarse-grained white powder. Her hair was long and straight, but brittle and badly split at the ends; it was a woody brown, unevenly tinted with a lighter brown.
She opened the bundle and from it took a small ewer and a small howl. She poured a white fluid and handed the bowl up to Korkungal.
‘Drink this, Warrior. It is milk and honey, good foods that will refresh you. You are tired in body and spirit, no doubt, for it was a difficult task that you surmounted today.’
Korkungal drank the sweet, thick fluid with little formality and braced himself contentedly afterwards. Agnanna shook her head in approval.
‘See? It is good. Soon the contentment of the cow and the peace of the flower will flow through you. Now, I would wash you first, but I think, looking at you, that you would not have the patience for it, so instead I will give you food. It will make you content and restful and better disposed to the enjoyment of the service of cleansing.
She gave him a wooden platter piled with white bread, fish and fruit. Korkungal ate ravenously, his whole being concentrated upon the food. Goodwill and ease gradually took the place of his earlier loneliness and pain. Agnanna stood back and watched him eat. She chattered and gesticulated all the while, and such was the force of all her nodding and smiling and talking that particles of powder became detached from her face and fell like a gentle snow upon her cloak and vestment.
‘I am adamant in this matter of food, Korkungal. Good food partakes of the goodness and beauty of the earth and when a man eats he partakes in this goodness and beauty. Some believe that they merely satisfy an appetite, which they disdain and treat economically because it is an instinct. They will pick at stale bread and dried fruit and believe that they are wise, and rise from their meal filled with a curious complacence. Ha! They are fools and you may be sure that they waste the rest of the day in telling themselves that the pangs in their bellies and in their souls are signs of a rational mortification. They will call it discipline and their bodies will shrivel and their minds will grow feverish for the want of nourishment.
‘But look at the man who understands his appetites. He comes to his meals rubbing his hands, preparing himself for a happy event. He knows that beyond the need to eat there rises the pleasure and contentment in satisfying an appetite and that these superfluous feelings exalt him.
‘It amazes me, Korkungal, that men will spite themselves in the way that many do. Consider the priests. They but nibble for need’s sake, and then stare miserably out of windows or into dark corners of rooms. I do not understand their denial, for they murder life. I can tell you that once upon a time there lived a great people in this region, when it was covered by thick vegetation and all the fruits of the world grew in natural abundance, who offered up a prodigality of gladness and happiness each day. Ah! They were a blessed race! But the land changed and it grew dry and barren, and this people went away and mingled throughout the world. Oh, they were searched for, but they are now finally all gone and commingled. Do not think that I am unhappy, though it is true that I regretted their passing. I am a patient girl, and I know that there have been other peoples here to match their happy spirit, and know that others will come in time.
‘But these Merura and their confederation of races give me no pleasure, though I am constantly among them with advice and encouragement. And as for their Temple, that great barn of stone, and their music, sure they have me circumscribed and anticipated to such an extent that I fear to listen to it...’
Korkungal had finished eating and was staring at Agnanna with vague expectancy. She recollected herself and looked closely at him.
‘Do you wish for more, Korkungal?’ Already she was bent over her bundle.
‘No, I am content.’
‘I am glad to hear it. Take your armour and tunic off and lie on the couch. I will serve you tonight as it is proper to serve a victorious warrior.’ She began to lay out jars and vials on the floor. ‘It does not surprise me that no one came to serve you when your fighting was done. Priests do not think of these things. They do not understand that warriors are solitary men. They themselves have many servants and cooks and other classes to supply their needs, and because of this they believe that man is self-sufficient...’
Because of his numb hands, Korkungal could not undo his scabbard belt. The girl leaped to help him, her small hands darting expertly between his. She then removed his breastplate and pulled his tunic over his head, too intent upon this to notice Korkungal’s hisses of pain as she forced him to stretch his arms.
‘Lie out now, Warrior. I will clean and anoint your tired body, for I can well believe that it is sore and stiff. See, your skin is red here, white there – it is dry and unsupple. It is a sad thing to see you in this state. In your own land, I know, your kin would have sent their women to you, to see to all your requirements. But here, in this Ka, the priests know no better than to send two fools to serve you. Do not let it surprise you, Korkungal, that they should do this. It is typical of them. They will sing and pray to the heavens till they are out of their wits, and engage in logic that cannot call an apple an apple, nor a man a man, but which spins like a top and cause them to tremble with love for their own wisdom...’
She threw off her cloak and pushed up the sleeves of her vestment above her elbows. From a jar she poured a scented oil into her cupped hand and began to rub it into the flesh of his arm.
Korkungal could no longer remember the events of that day, though many momentous things had happened to him. Nor did he want to remember. He watched Agnanna. Her hair had fallen over her face and it trailed on his skin. Her voluminous vestment no longer concealed her bent form.
And Korkungal could not conceal his pleasure.
Agnanna saw this. She looked frankly at him and said with a merry laugh:
‘Ha! You are not so tired after all, Warrior, are you?’
Korkungal chuckled and shook his body. He knew nothing else but his contentment.
Agnanna laughed again. She bent over him and worked the oil into his broad chest, growing breathless with the exertion.
‘Oh, Korkungal,’ she panted, ‘I have not begun to tell you what these priests do not know!’
Chapter Thirteen