Korkungal had a dream as he slept crouched at the foot of the couch upon which Sora lay. Three small men came and pricked his body with tiny spears. They took no notice of Korkungal as they industriously attacked him. Becoming annoyed, he swept them away. They returned and set to pricking him again, and again Korkungal brushed them away like flies. A third time they came and darted at him with their spears and a third time Korkungal reached the limit of his patience and drove them away.
They did not return. Later, Korkungal heard a mighty thrum-thrum, like an army on the march, and he shook in his sleep for the want of powers of resistance. His fear became so great that he awoke and sat up, shouting in alarm and groping about him for his weapons. The clamour as of an army diminished and in its place he heard a solitary beat, thrud-thrud, coming from outside the watch-tower. He calmed and looked about him. Sora stood by the window. She had drawn the curtain and she stared wide-eyed down at the common below. Korkungal took a deep breath, leaped to his feet and strode to the window.
In the centre of the common between the Temple and the tower, lit by the rising sun, a figure stood, legs apart, beating his spear on his shield. It was Harmesh. He was covered from head to foot by leather armour, each piece closely moulded to the contours of his slim body. On his head he wore a metal helmet surmounted by a golden disc. Korkungal could not doubt that the challenge was for him: Harmesh’s dark eyes burned into his. And when Harmesh saw him, he raised his spear and shouted in the tongue of the Ka.
Korkungal shook a clenched fist in acknowledgement and turned away. Sora was staring at him, her brows arched quizzically. Korkungal glanced at her face – sleep had smeared her make-up and tumbled her hair – and then down her vestment to her tiny feet. He was happy to look at her and in his happiness he felt himself grow strong and self-united. He pressed his fists to his chest and grinned widely at her. Sora replied by softening her features and lowering her eyes.
Korkungal went over to where his weapons hung, flexing his muscles to drive the stupor of sleep away as he walked. Sora followed him and helped him dress for battle. She strapped the breastplate about his body, then the scabbard about his waist; she fetched his red cloak from the foot of the couch and stood tiptoed as she fastened its clasp. While Korkungal put the helmet down on to his head, she lifted his sword from its place on the wall and presented it to him with mock-serious ceremony. Then she sat on the couch and appraised him, a quick smile playing on her lips – a smile composed of pride and the humour of a woman seeing the doings of men.
Korkungal raised his cloak for her to see him more clearly. The weapons and armour were still strange to him, but he had to trust them. Sora clapped and pointed to his hands and made signs to say that he had neither shield nor spear, while Harmesh below had. Korkungal went up to Harmesh’s chamber and selected two spears and a light round shield of bull leather. Now that he was prepared for fighting, he felt the familiar surge of excitement that goose pimpled his skin and tickled the nape of his neck. The death-possibility came to him in a new way, filling him with a strange relief. It made him unusually confident, almost reckless, as though his life was charmed.
He ran downstairs and out into the sunlight. Harmesh had kept up his beating of spear on shield; seeing Korkungal now, he increased its tempo, as much to incite himself as to insult Korkungal. Sora stood by the door, her eyes hooded against the sun. She raised her hand as though in blessing. Korkungal gave her a quick glance of pride and walked past, his eyes riveting on to the crouched figure of Harmesh.
He walked forward, every instinct alert, shield high and the two spears resting against its rim. Harmesh peered over his shield, serious and also watchful. The disc atop his helmet glinted brilliantly in the sun. They closed on one another, pace by pace, until they were shield to shield. Korkungal dropped one of his spears behind him and lowered the other and tapped it against the youth’s shield. Harmesh sidestepped and plunged his spear at Korkungal’s flank. The Brigan deflected it with his shield and drove his own spear into Harmesh’s arm, tearing a gash through the leather of his armour. Surprised at being so easily outmanoeuvred, Harmesh fell back and took up a more solidly defensive position. Korkungal bared his teeth at him in a mocking smile and padded forward, moving faster now and darting to left and right to confuse Harmesh.
Suddenly, a figure rushed past him and stopped in front of Harmesh. It was Klimbah, towering over his young charge, his massive arms gesticulating angrily. Korkungal heard him shout in the fluting tongue and Harmesh reply in thin insolent tones. Klimbah seemed to reach the limit of his patience: he wrenched the spear from Harmesh’s hand and swept the slight figure to one side with an almost casual swing of his arm. He held the spear high and pointed to it as he continued to scold the momentarily dazed Harmesh. Then he grasped it with his two hands and with little effort broke it in two. Harmesh screamed with rage and ran at him. Korkungal saw what Klimbah did not : the glint of the sword blade; but before he could shout a warning Harmesh had sunk it into the giant’s belly and was twisting it with well-practiced skill. Klimbah dropped the broken spear but he was dead before he could use his hands to defend himself. Korkungal did not think, this reaction had been in him before: he hefted his spear with care and cast it. It pierced Harmesh’s armour and entered his heart, as Korkungal had intended, and he jerked forward and fell across the body of Klimbah.
Korkungal paused to regain his breath before he walked over and took up his other spear. He approached the two bodies slowly, tremoring as usual at the sight of death. With his foot he rolled Harmesh off the giant. He had been prepared to kill Harmesh, though it would have been more fitting if it had been a warrior’s death in combat. The sight of Klimbah filled him with pity for the waste of his life. It grieved him that it would not be avenged. Harmesh would have died that day anyway. Putting a spear in his heart had been a mercy he was unworthy of.
He threw his spear and shield to the ground and loosened his cloak and laid it over Klimbah. Then he dragged Harmesh’s body across the common to the side of the Temple. Using his sword, he mutilated and dismembered it. He threw the pieces out on to the grass, scattering them well, and when that was done he sighed a long sigh of relief.
Hearing Sora call, he looked up. A line of soldiers stood between him and the watch-tower. The captain in charge stepped forward and called to him, but Korkungal did not understand him because he spoke the fluting tongue. The Captain waited for a reply and when none came he signalled four of his men to advance. They came up to Korkungal with a certain nonchalance, their spears held in relaxed positions. He waited until they were about four paces away before rushing them, his mighty warrior-arm arcing the sword in great bloody swathes. Surprise was on his side and by the time he had crushed all their resistance to him three were lying on the ground, two of them dead and the third grievously wounded, and the fourth was running away, crying with terror. Korkungal took advantage of the ensuing confusion – the line of soldiers broke and retreated and their captain was totally occupied with calling them to order – to run and retrieve the shield. He went back to the wall of the Temple and faced the soldiers, shield up and sword ready, the red glaze of battle-lust lighting his eyes. A great peace filled him and he was happily without memory.
The captain managed to bring his troops under control and get them in line again. He slapped the frenzied soldier into some kind of consciousness and sent him running off in the direction of the gate and the beach. Then he called to Korkungal again and signalled that he was to throw down his arms. He made gestures of peace and reconciliation and then gestures of a terrible death to show Korkungal the alternatives open to him. When Korkungal made no response of any kind, he ordered his line of soldiers to advance. They came forward slowly, their spears ready and their faces contorted with fear and concentration. The captain followed behind, chanting encouragement in a monotonous voice.
Korkungal did not move until they were close; then he ran along the wall and attacked the soldiers at one end of the line, swinging his sword and
sweeping his shield. The remainder of the line broke into confusion as it tried to turn to face Korkungal and found itself jammed against the wall of the Temple. The captain ran among the soldiers, screaming and manhandling them in an attempt to get them to reform further out on the common. Korkungal carved a path through the tangled mass, leaving dead and wounded soldiers behind him. They made some resistance, but it was difficult to wield a spear at such close quarters. All at once. as though obeying an unspoken command, the surviving soldiers turned and ran away. Their captain paused only long enough to look about him in wonder before running after them.
Korkungal leaned against the wall of the Temple. Blood and sweat commingled on his skin, trickling out of his hair, down his arms and from under his breastplate. He was grateful that the wall was in shadow, for the sky and the watch-tower were brilliant in the sunlight.
He rested, content to feel the excitement of battle, ignoring the cuts and gashes on his limbs and back.
Sora crossed the common to him. She surveyed the battlefield with some wonderment, but without any sign of revulsion for the carnage that littered the erstwhile green grass. She produced a jug of water from under her cloak and handed it to him. As Korkungal drank, she wiped his body with the end of her cloak, indifferent to the fact that it became stained red. Korkungal returned the jug to her and she went back to the doorway of the watch-tower.
Six soldiers appeared on the edge of the common, reinforcements armed with shields and heavy metal axes. One visibly gagged at the sight of his dead comrades. They did not advance; rather, they seemed to be waiting. Another group of axe-bearing soldiers came around the back of the Temple and took up station between the common and the quarter of the priests.
Korkungal took a fresh grip of his sword and shield and crouched in readiness. He feared the axes. but his destruction would be hard-won and paid for many times over. Such is the value of a warrior in comparison to a common soldier.
Three captains, one of them the routed captain, came marching up the street leading from the beach at the head of a column of over twenty soldiers. They formed themselves into ranks of six while the captains walked out on to the common. They were deep in conversation and did no more than glance across at Korkungal. Then one of them stepped forward and addressed him in a loud voice. He gestured to the dead soldiers and pointed behind him at the ranked troops. Korkungal did not understand him and replied by crouching lower. The captain who had spoken shrugged and spoke to his fellow captains. They nodded in agreement with what he had to say and the three of them retreated behind the line of axe-bearing soldiers. Just then, two priests came round the front of the Temple and hurried over to the Captains. Another priest appeared, walking more proudly. He had long black hair and wore a yellow cloak. Korkungal had seen him before, down on the beach. He spoke to the captains and they listened attentively. He looked with keen eyes at Korkungal and then gave orders, pointing and demonstrating with condescension. The captains shouted to their troops and immediately the two lines of axe-bearing soldiers began to walk towards each other. The ranked soldiers divided into two groups, one going over to the watch-tower, the second taking up position at the corner of the temple to Korkungal’s left. Meanwhile, the other two lines of soldiers met in the centre and turned to present Korkungal with two ranks of certain death.
The yellow-cloaked priest borrowed the sword of one of the captains, the routed one, and strode purposively across in Korkungal’s direction. He made a show of wielding the sword with vigorous ease. When he reached the first body he stopped and stared down at it; then he stared at the other bodies that were strewn about at Korkungal’s feet. He spoke in a harsh, blunt voice, gesturing at the massed soldiers about him and pointing with the tip of his sword at the dead bodies. Korkungal did not understand him either. He took one threatening step forward and shook his sword at the priest. There was a general stir among the soldiers in response, but the priest did not flinch. Instead, he stared at Korkungal until he stepped back to the wall. Then he shouted over his shoulder and one of the priests bobbed his head and ran away around the front of the Temple. The longhaired priest gave Korkungal one last hard look before walking with the same measured steps back to join the captains at the edge of the common.
In the pause that followed the only sounds to be heard were the creaking of leather and the odd jingle of metal touching on metal. The sun beat down on the soldiers and again Korkungal was thankful that he was in the shade of the Temple.
A black-robed priest came out of the priests’ quarter and walked slowly on to the common. Korkungal recognised him as the High Priest, with whom he had had an interview not many days before. The High Priest signalled to the captains that their soldiers were to fall back and the captains hastened to obey this order. He approached Korkungal until he was within a spear’s length of him. There was no fear in his face. He looked at the dead soldiers with an impassive expression.
‘You have done terrible work this day, Korkungal, warrior of the Briga,’ he said reflectively. ‘The Ka pays dearly for an example of your prowess.’
Korkungal had difficulty in speaking: the exertions of battle and the tension of awaiting death were very great.
‘It is nothing much, priest,’ he said slowly. ‘Many more will die before the sun sets.’
Lamla raised his brows slightly.
‘I believe you, warrior. It is not a vain boast. I have never before seen so much destruction by the hand of one man. But tell me, Korkungal, is this mere sport or is there true justification for this slaughter?’
‘I was challenged and I defend myself,’ Korkungal said with a shrug.
‘Did these soldiers challenge you?’
No.
‘Who then?’
‘Harmesh.’
‘Ah,’ Lamla sighed. He walked over and lifted the red cloak. Then he walked about looking at the ground. He bent stiffly and lifted an object, which he brought back to Korkungal. He raised it for him to see. It was the head of Harmesh. In death, his lips were curled in spite and arrogance.
Lamla studied it for some time before speaking.
‘You made his death very shameful, Korkungal. Was this necessary?’
‘He murdered Klimbah in treachery, priest. His life was already forfeit to me, so his death was not a price for the death of Klimbah.’
Lamla dropped the head and rubbed his hands.
‘A harsh morality, but a just one, Korkungal. I will respect it. But why the slaughter of so many fine soldiers? Did they also challenge you?’
‘They attacked me,’ Korkungal replied bluntly.
‘I see. Be patient with me while I speak to the captains, Korkungal. I think there has been a sad misunderstanding.’
Lamla picked his way over the bloodied grass and was met halfway by the three captains and the yellow-cloaked priest. All bowed to him, except the priest, who merely nodded. He spoke to them in a gentle voice and the captains answered him respectfully one at a time, repeating themselves often. As he returned to Korkungal, one of the captains shouted orders and the soldiers who bore axes and shields broke rank and retreated to the vicinity of the watch-tower. The remaining soldiers raised their spears and rested them on the ground. They broke into an excited chatter, which sundered what had hitherto been an intense, brooding silence.
This time Lamla came up to Korkungal’s shield. He smiled a wan, weary smile.
‘It seems, Korkungal, that the Captains merely want to retrieve their dead, Will you allow that?’ he said with mock-irony.
Korkungal grunted and looked down at the High Priest.
‘When the fighting is at an end they can bury all their dead.’
‘No, no, warrior of the Briga,’ Lamla cried, raising his hands as though in sudden alarm. ‘The fighting is at an end. The Captains recognise their error. They had interfered merely to prevent bloodshed. Though you may not know it, fighting is not permitted within the walls of the Ka. But Harmesh knew this and it was he who incited you to battle, so the blame
for all this slaughter lies with him. It is regrettable that this misunderstanding has caused so much death and I have explained to the Captains that you cannot be held responsible.’
‘I will wait until the soldiers leave before I sheath my sword, priest.’
‘They are leaving now, Korkungal. Besides, I will myself guarantee your safety. You see that I stand between you and the soldiers.’
‘Very well, I will put up my sword.’
Korkungal cleaned the sword on the grass and slid it into his scabbard. Lamla waved but once and instantly the captains shouted and the soldiers began to leave the common. They had to push their way through the crowd of artisans and their families that had gathered in the streets leading to the common.
Only the priest in the yellow cloak remained. He pointed the sword, which he had not returned to the captain, at Korkungal and shouted angrily at Lamla. Korkungal drew his sword again and stepped forward, but Lamla laid his two hands on his shield and said:
‘Have patience, Korkungal. Hepteidon’s anger has other causes. I will speak to him and quieten him. Put up your sword.’
He hurried over to Hepteidon and laid his hand on the fist that held the sword. He spoke soothingly and gently eased the sword away from him. For a second it looked as though Hepteidon would strike his High Priest, but Lamla continued talking to him and finally succeeded in persuading him to leave the common.
Lamla smiled to reassure Korkungal as he approached.
‘There, Korkungal. We will have no more fighting in the Ka. Hepteidon is amenable to reason, that must be said to his credit.’ He smirked in a peculiar way as he spoke these last words, and Korkungal was surprised to see something break in the otherwise level gaze of the old priest. ‘However, you will want to bathe and rest now after this morning’s work, Korkungal. If you will come with me, I will see that my priests attend to you.’
Korkungal looked with mistrust at the huddle of buildings behind the Temple. Then he looked over at the watch-tower.
Sara stood in the open doorway, wrapped in her stained cloak. Lamla followed his gaze and said:
‘That old tower is a cold, gaunt place, Korkungal. My priests will give you better attention.’ Lamla deliberately paused before adding: ‘Besides, I am sure you would like to see your priest, Kandrigi.’
Korkungal’s expression changed, much to Lamla’s secret astonishment.
The sternness of the warrior was replaced by a distant look of longing. Korkungal remembered his vow of the previous evening: he must persuade Kandrigi to leave the Ka today.
But then he had a vision of the evening he first laid his eyes on the white wall of the city, and he saw there a man different from the one he was now. He trembled and tears pricked his eyes for the Warrior of the Briga the Ka had finally destroyed.
Chapter Nineteen