Varlarsaga Volume 2 - Recovery

Chapter - 31 Kurigaldur

From within the centre of this sudden radiance, there emerged several tall figures clothed in long, yellow robes that fell from their shoulders to their sandalled feet. Their hair was extremely close cropped and smoothed to the scalp with the aid of some silvery paste, and the faces of these people were almost devoid of expression: the shaven skin overlaid with a pale, waxen substance that allowed little of the flesh hue through, yet covered all lines and blemishes, giving them a strange doll-like appearance. Their hands were clasped before them, and about their necks hung golden lunalae: crescent-shaped throat rings beaten flat and finished with balls of solid gold, mounted upon each moon-like cusp. Only their eyes, almond shaped and beryl-blue, beneath carefully plucked brows that were no more than the merest of pigmented lines, showed any sparkle of life. It was as if they were marbled statues, come to life.

They advanced to a point where still the light from within lit their footsteps, then they halted.

‘Gree tings Men keep ir, Lord of O ren burg,’ said the nearest, in a slow, song-like fashion. ‘I am Sha lim, dusk-tide Door-Ward. You may en ter Kur ig al dur with your fol low ers and wel come. Yet the crea ture that waits up on the plain may not.’

‘Then you have observed our coming through the reeds,’ said Menkeepir.

‘Oh yes. We watch ed you ev en when far off,’ replied Shalim, without changing voice or expression.

Menkeepir smiled. ‘Well then, we will be pleased to accept your kindness, if first I may seek another favour?’

‘What shall that be?’

‘The creature you speak of is an Ogre. He guided us to Kurigaldur, and as payment demands both food and wine for his trouble. He holds my Brother hostage until the payment be brought to him. If you would aid us in this I, in return, should give of such gifts as are left us after our arduous journey.’

‘Do not trou ble your sel ves fur ther,’ said Shalim. ‘The boon is gran ted.’ He turned to one beside him and spoke in a strange tongue. The man hurried away at once. ‘Now, will you not en ter in to the Zigg ur at u of Or so kon, rath er than wait up on its thresh old in dis com fort?’

Menkeepir smiled in appreciation. ‘Many thanks for your kindness, Door-Ward Shalim. However, I shall not enter until I have my Brother Mysingir at my side. I have pledged my word to the Ogre, and I must see that word kept before ought else.’

Shalim gave a slight bow. ‘A man of hon our; a Lord worth y of fol ow ers, is he who tends first their needs, and keeps first his word. Ver y well. When all are safe with in, you shall bathe and rest a while, till such time as you wish to take a meal. I shall have news of your com ing sent to the Wan ax. He will wish to speak with you, I am sure.’ Again he bowed, and turning, glided away, leaving Menkeepir and Corin astride their mounts, whilst the doors closed and the light was cut to a narrowed band that escaped between the barely-ajar portals.

Still, it was not long before they reopened and there once again stood Shalim before a line of seven followers: each bearing sacks of food, clay jars, and stoppered jugs.

‘Have your men take these to the crea ture,’ said he. ‘These should be e nough to sat is fy ev en such a beast as he.’

And so it was soon done. By the light of the moon, the victuals were brought down to Brôga and laid before him. After shaking the vessels and nosing into the sacks, the ogre nodded his shaggy head, saying to Menkeepir, ‘Good-all-go-now Brôga-have-guts-to-fill!’ And he dismissed them without further ado, turning to thrust his massive paw inside the neck of a bag, where he withdrew a haunch and began scoffing into it.

Thereafter, those left of the company that had set out from Mendoth, rode through the great doors of Kurigaldur, where they were duly greeted by Shalim and many others, come to see these weary riders from a far off country.

‘I have still a further favour to ask of you,’ said Menkeepir, dismounting within the bright-lit chamber, as the doors closed fast behind them.

‘What is that?’ asked Shalim politely.

Menkeepir gestured toward the four roans that bore the bodies of Cennalath and the other dead.

‘These were men of my realm, all loyal; one a dear friend. I would see them laid to rest with honour and dignity, if there be places allotted here, and if it be permitted.’

Without a word, Shalim pointed to the bodies slung upon the horses, and several of those about him came forward to relieve each animal of its burden. Thence they brought forth saffron sheets and laid the dead there and wrapped them within.

When this was done, the Door-Ward turned to Menkeepir, saying, ‘Let them rest this night in Kur ig al dur where their sleep will not be fur ther dis tur bed. Or so kon, Wan ax, will be in for med of your wish.’

Menkeepir inclined his head. ‘Thank you for your kindness at my grief. Now I entrust them into the hands of the peoples of Kurigaldur.’

Shalim ran his slim fingers over the shoulder of Menkeepir's roan. ‘Good care too, will be af ford ed these fine an im als,’ he said admiringly, as the horses were led away down a ramp to stables below. ‘Now come with me, if you please, and re fresh your selves,’ he beckoned. And turning, led the way along a high corridor to apartments wherein were sunken baths filled with perfumed waters. At their entrance, the girlish sound of laughter vanished as if vapour, and echoed down the halls.

After Corin, Menkeepir and the others had steeped themselves in the fragrant waters and donned robes left out for them, they were once again met by Shalim, who conducted them to an open hall where a feast was spread, strewn over woven rugs upon the floor.

There they dined: drinking out of rhytons, cups of polished horn, and eating from beaten copper platters, whilst a spice-wood fire burned cheerily in a huge, open bowl, sitting on a tripod in the centre of the room.

‘The thirst quen cher is fer men ted mare's milk, that we call kum in,’ said Shalim in reply to Mysingir's question. ‘And the fruit is from the brin gal trees that grow in our gar dens. The black bread is made from the pound ed reeds through which you pass ed, and the cheese is from our goat herds. The cakes are hon ey but ter from our hives, and in the vess els here are sweet must, new ly crush ed, and wat er drawn from wells deep be low Kur i gal dur.’

‘This meat,’ said Mysingir, taking a second mouthful, ‘it is delicious. What is it?’

‘In our ton gue it is nam ed Bu te on. You would call it buzz ard,’ replied Shalim, as he bowed and took his leave.

Mysingir swallowed, choking a little. ‘Buzzard! Arrgh!’ He took a draught of wine.

‘Still, it appears well prepared,’ added Corin thoughtfully, yet with a twinkle in his eyes.

To this, the others, with the exception of Mysingir, laughed heartily.

In a short while, Shalim returned saying, ‘If you are read y, the Wan ax will re ceive you now.’

Menkeepir, Mysingir and Corin, bearing Bim upon his shoulder, followed at once, leaving the others to feast on at their leisure.

This time Shalim led them down another narrow, high-ceilinged passage, the walls of which were decorated with long friezes: painted and sculptured images depicting many themes; earth and sky, mountain and forest, bird and beast, until they halted before a tall pair of carven cedar doors.

There, Shalim pulled upon a tasselled bell rope, and from within came a faint ringing.

Straightway, the doors were opened, and there before them was a large chamber; richly painted in bright colours and hung about with green and golden tapestries. A fragrance of many scents wafted on the breeze as Shalim ushered them forward. At one end, before a vast fireplace, wherein roared red flame, a band of musicians played a soft, winding tune upon gold-capped harps and bird-headed lyres. Others, blew and stroked curious instruments that seemed both flute and bow, adding to the sinuous music.

But it was to the opposite end that Shalim conducted them. There, standing upon a lofty dais, were twin thrones of baked and lacquered clay, shining in the candle-light that ringed the platform. On the right sat Orsokon, Wanax of Kurigaldur in Kutha-Kesh, robed all in saffron, and on his head there was twined a white, pointed turban, set and pinned by a five-tined jewel of deep blue. His forehead was adorned with a diadem of like stones, and his waxen face was patterned with many lines and convolutions that curved upward from the eyes, and down from the sharp nose to the chin. On his lap, he dandled an infant wrapped in white. The child's skin glowed a healthy pink, and it gurgled as he held it to him.

Beside Orsokon sat a woman gowned in gold. Her face was glossed pale; her eyes, serene and clear and hazel of colour. Her eyelids and lips were glazed with the softest blue. She bore no crown upon her silvery hair, which fell about her bare shoulders and down to her slim, clasped hands.

‘Come forward, O Lord of Indlebloom, and bring your companions,’ said the Wanax in a lifting voice that framed every word as if it were a precious gem.

‘We are honoured that you receive us with such hospitality,’ answered Menkeepir, advancing to the foot of the dais.

For a moment, Orsokon's eyes flickered. ‘You will pardon my saying, yet perhaps it would not have been so in these troubled times, but for the birthday of our child,’ he replied, holding up the baby. ‘This is my Son, Orsokon the Third, who will, one day, be Wanax of this land.’ He placed the baby again upon his knees, and took up the hand of the woman beside him. ‘This is my Consort, Semir-Ramis; Silver-Tresses, you would say.’

She inclined her head to them, but smiled not.

Orsokon continued, ‘You will forgive me, but my Son and Wife have occupied me much, and so I could not meet you at your arrival. Still, you are fortunate, for in this time of celebration, none who knock upon Kurigaldur's doors would I turn away; if they come in peace.’

‘You say your babe is the third to bear the name of Orsokon,’ said Menkeepir, feeling his way uncertainly.

‘That is so. I am Orsokon the second. My Father died in battle some time ago.’

‘I am grieved to hear that,’ replied Menkeepir genuinely. ‘So will be my Brother Mendor. As a child he travelled hither with my Father's friend Cennalath, who alas now lies in death's long sleep, together with other brave men of my party, here in Kurigaldur.’

Orsokon leaned forward. ‘Cennalath, you tell me? I recall him. And your brother. I was a stripling then, yet I remember my Father's words; well did he think of the young Lord, and of his guardian Cennalath.’ For a moment, Orsokon bent his gaze away from them. Then, he turned back. ‘And he is dead, here?’

‘Yes, Wanax. He died of exhaustion, borne of old age, along the dangerous way we trod. I, and Mysingir, my youngest Brother here before you, vowed to lay him to rest with dignity.’

‘And so you shall,’ replied Orsokon gravely. ‘A good man deserves ceremony and preparation for his journey. We will see it done together in the kist chambers beneath the Zigguratu.’ He turned to Shalim, saying, ‘Have the waiting halls of my ancestors unsealed, and make ready, that these dead may take abode with the Fathers of Kutha-Kesh.’

The door-ward bowed and departed, whilst Orsokon spoke briefly to the musicians. ‘Mes kaylim anni nin agad. Dug muka nin Ki-re-tu pad-da kharsag amu engu darya.’

At once their song shifted, and shrilled to a wail. Then it sank into depths of despair like a broken heart, and afterwards lifted and fell over and again.

‘I requested that they change their tune to that known as "The Song of the Dead." Which begins, "Let the wings of the Ibis send shadows upon Their faces." ’ Orsokon cast down his eyes, as did Semir-Ramis, and for some moments said no more.

Then, both looked up. ‘Tell me,’ said the Wanax, directing himself to Menkeepir, ‘you have spoken of the perilous journey here, and of this Brother who accompanies you; yet I would know of the third standing before us, bearing such a queer creature. Will it strike? What is it?’

Corin stepped forward, and Bim peeped out from beneath the broad collar of his yellow robe. ‘He will not strike, O Wanax. He is both companion and friend.’ He smiled, stroking Bim's neck.

Then Menkeepir, taking the introduction upon himself, said, ‘This is Corin Avarhli, from far away over land and distant sea. And this is his wonderful cat Bimmelbrother.’

Corin drew Bim down into his arms, so that Orsokon's son caught sight of him for the first time and began to follow the cat with his eyes. ‘May we both present ourselves to you and to your Lady,’ said Corin. ‘We thank you for your kindness; for to travel so long through dangers such as we have endured, and to be met in friendship, gladdens our hearts. Do not be alarmed, Bim can cause you no harm. Why, even a babe may stroke him without fear.’

He held Bim toward the child, but Orsokon drew back into his throne; yet seeing his tiny child reach out, allowed him to run his fingers across the soft, black fur.

‘Purr-meeow,’ said Bim, curling his paws on Corin's hands.

‘Oho!’ exclaimed Orsokon in delight. ‘The animal makes a sound of pleasure!’ And for the first time, Semir-Ramis broke into a smile that seemed to illuminate the hall with a sudden bloom of beauty.

‘It is a joy to see your Lady's happiness,’ cried Mysingir, who had thus far held back.

‘You must forgive me,’ said Orsokon. ‘I shall explain; my Father had me tutored in your language when I was very young. Semir-Ramis, knows not that tongue. Indeed, few here now do. Good Shalim and some Elders, recall a smattering of the Ren speech. Apart from them, I am the only one. But then it is fitting for the Wanax to remember everything that he is taught. Every lesson is his duty; every duty is his lesson. Little Orso, my Son, shall learn from me, as I have learned from my Father.’ He almost smiled. ‘Yet this is a night we will not forget. We have beheld a new thing; this creature of yours, Corin Avarhli. We rejoice together in the treasure of life never before seen. It has hair; or would you call it feathers?’

‘No, fur,’ said Corin, pleased at this easy banter.

‘Yes, fur, of course,’ replied the Wanax, amiably. ‘And it is soft and friendly to you? It makes those sounds.’

‘I can do other things too,’ said Bim, and Orsokon's eyes widened.

‘It speaks? The creature speaks?’ he asked in disbelief.

‘I speak. I wait still as stone. I see afar. I see in the night. I walk in silence. A pebble hides me. A morsel feeds me. I am a friend to friends. I am a foe to foes. I am loyal to my Meowster, and he to me. Meet him; for he is stranger than I could ever be.’ He licked Corin's fingers with his dry tongue, then leaping to the floor, crossed it and came to the fire, where the musicians, gaping, had ceased their mournful dirge. There Bim curled up purring, and seemed to be asleep in a trice.

Silver-Tresses lifted her white arms and plucked her child from Orsokon's grasp. ‘Amirac, amirar!’ she laughed in delight, clutching the babe to her breast.

Corin, taking up the advantage left him by his cunning cat, set his foot upon the step that led to Orsokon's throne. ‘We have come,’ he said, and the words broke in his throat as he spoke them, ‘to seek your guidance. Little can we tell of our quest, for little do we know. We crave enlightenment. It is our fervent hope that the Wanax of Kutha-Kesh, Sovereign of Kurigaldur, may open the dark and render it light.’

Mirth put aside, Orsokon leaned forward again, saying to Menkeepir, ‘It is odd that after all this time the Lords of Mendoth should come hither, pleading my aid. Especially after the falling out between our two peoples.’

‘That was caused by Dewin, Adviser to my Father when he was alive. It was he who journeyed here with Cennalath and my Brother Mendor those many years ago.’

‘Yes, and it was he who insulted my Father, and rekindled the rift between Kurigaldur and Mendoth city,’ added Orsokon, with sudden bitterness in his voice.

‘True,’ agreed Menkeepir. ‘Though I was told that your Father was quick to take insult, and swift to anger.’

Orsokon stiffened, and his pale face seemed to grow paler. His hands tightened on the armrests of his throne. ‘Verily, he was,’ he said, ‘and quick to punish offenders also. Certainly when an honoured guest attempts to steal a priceless treasure from his host, and in so doing is caught. After that, as you will observe, my Father had the relic placed in the ceiling of this chamber; where thieving eyes might covert, but hands not touch.’ He gestured above their heads, and looking up, Corin beheld a curious and startling depiction, framed by the torch-light from beneath.

Mystical and eerie it seemed; glowing as the shadows danced across its surface. Unlike was it to anything Corin had ever seen, and not akin to the Kurigaldan art which he had glimpsed before. Whether it was hewn out of stone, was difficult to tell; though about the thing was an air of great antiquity. It was rectangular in shape, and within that area was a boundary, curved at both ends, of double bronzed lines. Inside that again was a smaller central boundary, the inner border being filled by a parade of many figures: some, noble statured, others goblin-like, or featured as dragons and monsters; all cleverly, exquisitely, frighteningly wrought in relief.

At the very centre, flanked on each side by patterns predominantly silver-blue and yellow-green, was a circle comprised of three rings: bronze, silver, and bronze. And inside them, a circular motive, not unlike the waves of the sea, and a deep blue sky, strewn with a scattering of stars. Yet the most chilling aspect lay in the outer areas beyond the boundaries. Here was drawn the form of a gigantic, undulating serpent, that lay, curling the length of all that panel. At one end, its tail looped around the image of a swan; pale against a nightsky, and picked out by stars. In the centre, within the outermost lines, were depicted the sun and moon. At the other end, the serpent's body curved back and terminated at that profiled head; eye filled with malevolence, jaws agape, about to engulf a third group of stars. Lastly, there were two white disks positioned within the coils at either end; and upon those, in concentric circles, were arranged many signs, in a strange, unknown scripture. Altogether, the work had an awesome quality in the design and colour of it, and Corin was struck by some distant feeling of discomfort.

‘What exactly is it?’ he asked in a hushed tone.

‘That, I cannot tell you,’ said Orsokon, ‘for none here know. It was found, half buried, far away and long ago, by Shalminesar the Great; a hero of my people. He it was who brought it hither, and laid it as a gift at the feet of Nar-Amsin, forth Wanax of Kutha-Kesh, six generations ago. Of itself, perhaps it has no worth; yet its value lies within the mystery of its art and singular being. Fashioned by no Kurigaldan craftsman or scribe was it. And though many have studied it, none have ever succeeded in unravelling its secrets. What it is, and what it conveys remain a riddle. It is. That is enough. And it has been cherished as a treasure ever since Shalminesar offered it to Nar-Amsin. For generations it sat openly, that all might see and marvel. That is, until the coming of the people of Mendoth city; amongst them, one who harboured evil in his heart. By stealth, in dead of night, tried he to take the Serpent Stone, for though it weighs heavy, it is not impossible for a man to bear away upon beasts of burden.’

Here Orsokon looked directly at Menkeepir. ‘Still, he was caught, and had your Envoy Dewin been of our folk he would have lost his head for such insult against my Father. Instead, he and all who had accompanied him, including your Brother and Cennalath, were expelled from Kurigaldur without delay. That wound between the cities has never been healed.’

‘Until now,’ replied Menkeepir. ‘Dewin was a trouble maker, but he has long since vanished from Indlebloom Vale; gone without trace: disgraced and shamed. And I am now Lord, with only my Brothers as advisers.’

‘And my Father is dead, and I rule now in this land,’ said Orsokon, somewhat more gently.

‘Then may we not let the past be?’ returned Menkeepir, smiling.

Orsokon nodded. ‘These things cannot be forgotten. Yet we will put them aside and see what shall come of the present. Draw up seats for yourselves and tell me of your quest. I would hear these riddles you seek answer to.’

Briefly then, both Menkeepir and Corin related the tale of their meeting, and of the prophesies of the Seeress before Menkeepir's birth, and of their subsequent search for her. Then they told of Corin's life and escape, with the aid of the bird.

When they had done, Orsokon said, ‘A curious tale you have woven, and one few would believe enough to risk death as you have. Yet it so happens that I believe you, for I can, at least in part, provide some answer. I know of the bird, and of those Four of which you spake. The pilgrim and explorer Mis-Kyang, that is Black-Hair, who now has long passed from the living, claimed that he met with them upon his lone journeys into the east. It is told that he said they had indeed companion creatures. One a small bird. It is told that he returned from beyond the Kisir-Oba, the Barren Mountains, near to death; wandering and witless in mind. It is told that he had been captured and tortured by the dreaded Hiung-Nu. The Dog-Faces, a savage tribesfolk of those regions. They have the blood of my Father upon them. May my curse bring them low!’

Words seemed to elude Orsokon for a time, until he regained his composure and continued, ‘It is told that Mis-Kyang escaped before they could put him to death and that he returned after much hardship in the wilderness. Never, since that time, have the Four been seen again. The bird, however, has been sighted. A jackdaw you name it? To us it is called tale, and is ever alone. That in itself is strange, for in Kutha-Kesh the buteon and ki-re-tu, the ibis, dwell in numbers. Still, it, or its offspring have visited Kurigaldur through the seasons, ever since memory can recall. Solitary, it wings in and perches amongst the bringal trees, eating of their fruit and tarrying a while. Then off it flies into the rising sun, or toward its setting in the east.’

‘Is that where its Mistress yet dwells?’ wondered Corin aloud.

‘That I know not,’ replied Orsokon. ‘Yet it is said in ancient verse that Four, terrible to gaze upon, and possessing powers such as might darken the sky and crack the earth underfoot, abode beyond the Kisir-Oba in the long ago.’

Mysingir looked up from where he had been staring toward the fire.

‘Pray, what is this verse, O Wanax? Do you remember?’

‘Only in part,’ said Orsokon. ‘It comes near the end of The Tale of Life's Beginnings, and now that is worn down and mostly forgotten. The few lines that mention the Four, I shall needs render to your tongue. Let me be a moment.’

He sat, pondering deeply for some little time.‘Yes, I have it now, listen:

"After profound darkness lifted and paled into gloom...

After veiled oceans breathed forth the germ from the husk...

Seeds were sown.

Nature above arose...

And mighty powers below.

Oh! Manifold creation.

Presided over, watched, nurtured.

The High saw it, and the Low.

The Dark saw it, and the Light.

The Four saw it; Sistered kindred, whose home is Aplotha.

Who waits of the Four.

Last upon last.

The deed to end.

The doom not yet laid.

Thunder rings at the coming.

Lightning shards the sky.

The Four are One, with wrath and power..." ’

‘Aplotha,’ repeated Mysingir in a faraway voice.

The Wanax nodded. ‘That is a Kurigaldan word I neglected to translate. In your language it would mean, ah, one more moment...’ He struggled within his mind, uncertainly. ‘It does not equate with the Ren speech well; perhaps Gulf, or better, Abyss.’

‘That it well could,’ returned Mysingir. ‘Your words have sparked a memory in me of rhymes told me when but a small child, a mere babe in arms.’

‘Then tell it now, if it has bearing,’ demanded Menkeepir. ‘Draw it from the depths of your memory, for you have always kept song and such there.’

Mysingir's face brightened, after due consideration; ‘Yes, I have it!’ He stood before them and paced a few paces, then turning, said, ‘It was a song sung to hush infants, to lull them into sleep. Though now I recall the words, they were not of lullaby, far from such. The tune may have been restful, but the words are chilling cold. This is how it went:

"Sing to me, o witches of Ap-Peloth.

Of spells that you cast in your wrath.

Of webs that you wove within cauldrons of fire.

Of deeds, sing me now, dire.

Of dark haunt and cavern of black.

Of face gaunt, of ruin and wrack.

Of low chants made at your coming.

Of boned fingers strumming, down staves that were graven

with words beyond tongue.

And bright sun turned raven, when runed bells were rung.

Sing me of fire-eyes in deep pits of yellow.

Of grey orbs, your faces of sallow.

Sing me your song, sing me asleep.

Lest you take in the night, my heart to keep."

‘That is the best I can do,’ sighed Mysingir, coming to himself as if from a dream. ‘If that did not ensure against the wanderings of foolish children, I do not know what could. It surely made me desire the warmth and comfort of bed in the night.’

‘And of the protection and power of he who sang it,’ said Menkeepir, the truth dawning upon him. ‘For now, so do I remember; it was sung to me also, and by Dewin! That must have been after our parents were found together, dead. From that time onward, Dewin was appointed guardian to we three, until his disgrace, here in Kurigaldur. What other dark powers did he contrive to bind us to his will, I wonder. And more so, what hand had he in the deaths of our parents?’

‘But how could he have known of the Tale of Life's Beginnings?’ questioned Mysingir.

‘Perhaps he heard it from my Father, or discovered it amongst our ancient tomes,’ suggested Orsokon, ‘for Dewin had made several journeys hither, before that fateful one, and spoke our language fluently.’ The Wanax reached forth and struck at a gong held in a frame by his knee. ‘Now it is time, I think, to rest and consider what has been spoken this night. Since it seems that much of mystery has been, at last, revealed. And it maybe that sore wounds might be salved after many turns of the moon. Let us go to our beds and think, this night through. In the morning, we of Kurigaldur shall see to your dead comrades. After, we will speak again in the clear light of day.’

He took his wife's hand and together, she holding their son, they rose from their seats. A door opened behind the dais, and through this portal entered two veiled maidens, dressed as usual in saffron robes. To these Orsokon addressed himself in his native tongue, then, turning to Menkeepir, he said, ‘Follow the Hand-Ladies of Semir-Ramis. They shall lead you to sleeping quarters wherein await those others of your folk.’ He bowed low. ‘Until the morrow then,’ and dismissing his musicians, he and his wife and child passed from the chamber.

That night, Corin again dreamt the dreams that had patterned his existence from his earliest recall. Haunting Voices swirled and overlapped: calling, crying, ever just out of reach, out of sight, withdrawing into the dark like an out-flowing tide. He struggled in his sleep, seeking to grapple with those fleeting wisps: trees, or maybe tall mounts, reared before him; sheer chasms plummeted at his feet. A boiling, raging sea roared in, as a giant wall overbearing. Huge storm-clouds whirled, and the sky itself seemed to twist and pitch. He was spinning and spinning, falling through sky and sea and earth, down and down tossing. Down into the stone itself of world's breast, until he tumbled out, stunned. He found himself in some vast subterranean vault where light but faintly seeped. And yet, somehow he knew that place, knew how enormous was that region, that nether world, and he grew afraid. Dread gripped at his throat like a many-fingered hand. In the twilight in the pit, in the very core of that black heart, something stirred. Something that filled all the surrounds with its immensity and power and hunger. It seemed to engulf Corin. Vainly he clasped his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut to stop himself from hearing and seeing what it was that completely filled the void about him. And then, through his defences, through his ringing head, he heard;

‘YOU ARE IN MY MOUTH!’

He awoke sharply, his heart pounding.

Bim sat upon a cushion, watching him with narrowed eyes. ‘You are unwell Meowster?’ he enquired.

Corin sat up. ‘No. It was a dream, good cat. That is all. Sometimes they are frightening... Sometimes I can almost reach what it is that lies hidden; that terrifies me...’ He sighed. ‘Is it day yet?’

‘Yess,’ replied Bim. ‘All are abroad. You are to bathe and join the others taking morning meal. Shalim has left water, and your very own cloak to don.’

After laving and dressing, Corin followed Bim to the apartment of the night before. There he found the rest of his companions taking breakfast, and joined them.

When they had concluded, Shalim appeared and conducted them to a great stairwell where steps ran around its four sides, lit by lamps placed at close intervals. The shaft penetrated straight down through the centre of the Ziggurat.

Several times, as they descended, Corin was reminded of his recent dream, and a feeling of horror almost overcame him. Still, he managed to suppress this, and plunged on saying nothing.

Eventually they reached the bottom and stepped out into a long, low-ceilinged vault. There, they found Orsokon and several others whom they did not know, awaiting them.

‘These are the halls of my ancestors, and of the ancestors of all who dwell in Kurigaldur,’ he said with much solemnity. ‘One day I too shall seek rest here within the kist-chambers of my fathers. Come, we will say farewell to your comrades together.’

Then Menkeepir walked at Orsokon's side as they moved off past rows of sealed tombs, whilst behind followed Mysingir and Corin, with Bim curled, as usual, around his master's neck. At last they came to a number of openings in the floor, wherein lay the bodies of Cennalath and those brave others. They were placed upon their sides, bent over, heads resting on their hands as if in sleep. Beside them, in each pit, were set bowls of food and water, and their own belongings, carefully laid out about them. Large baked-clay lids were nearby to cover their last abodes.

So it was that there, by the light of torches, the living were assembled, to meet a final time with the dead.

‘Here then, shall we leave them,’ said Orsokon, ‘in company with the richest and the poorest of Kutha-Kesh. Should they grow restless of their sleep and awaken, the provender provided may refresh them and aid their strength to remove the lids above them. Flame burns always in these halls and the way out is not hard to find, though none here have ever found it. And yet, maybe, their hearts have sought a better place, and they have no desire to return.’

The Wanax lifted his hand, and at once the lids were slid into place over the bodies there interred. ‘It is done,’ he said quietly, stepping back.

Menkeepir knelt a while before each of the kists, and lastly by that of Cennalath, whereon he laid a wristlet from his own arm, as a mark of affection for the old man, who had been friend to his father, and dedicated to he and his brothers.

‘Have no fear,’ said Orsokon. ‘None will come to disturb them, not whilst a ruler sits in Kurigaldur. My people honour the dead, and everything that belongs to them.’

The sky was clear and sunny as Orsokon, Menkeepir, Corin and Mysingir strolled about the gardens that crowned the highest levels of the Ziggurat. They walked through arbours wreathed with climbing plants, and along terraced paths. They walked amongst groves of fruit-trees and grape-vines, and knee deep amidst the mauve and golden crocus that bloomed in rich beds wherever they trod and took their way. The air was filled with fragrance of myrtle and cedar, and the perfume of the bringal that grew in abundance in the orchards.

‘This rich soil was hauled from long away, as were the things that grow within it,’ said the Wanax, in answer to Menkeepir's question. ‘It was a hard labour, yet here was the only place where wells yielded water enough to survive. On the terraces about, even our goat flocks may graze without want, and below,’ he gestured to the reeds that spread like a yellow carpet upon all sides, ‘grows the life-staff of Kutha-Kesh. From that golden harvest we win our daily bread.’

‘You are well provided then,’ said Menkeepir.

‘Yes. Though dangers abound in plenty. There are the creatures you call goblins. Though mostly they seem to dwell westward in the Colle-Oba. And there are the Hiung-Nu. Dog-Faces.’

‘Will you tell us of them?’ Corin asked.

‘If you wish it,’ replied the Wanax, ‘although each time I think of that folk my heart smoulders within my breast. Savage, that they are. Takers of my Father's life they be. Oh, that Etzela and I should meet upon a lonely path, just he and I!’

Orsokon halted a moment, his eyes filled with rage. Then, presently he went on, ‘The Hiung-Nu are wanderers who travel with their herds of cattle and goat, and they watch over them unceasingly, for the herds are their life's blood, apart from what they take from the land, or those unfortunate enough to cross their path. They ride upon the tarpans, wild horses of the Kisir-Oba, unlike to our large and awkward plough animals. Small and hardy beasts they are, and much prized by the Hiung-Nu. As much prized as the yellow curs that roam with them, and from whom they take the name of Dog-Face, for in truth their appearance is much alike to those four-leggeds, and just as wild. The Hiung-Nu are shorter of stature than we, brown of skin and squint of eye. But for all their small form, they are fierce warriors; why even their she-folk ride and fight alongside them. For weapons they bear curved swords and razors, and slings which they wear bound about their heads, when not using them to knock down their prey. They are friendly to none but their own. The only thing that they do fear is the Sangasu.’

‘What is the Sangasu?’ asked Mysingir, idly biting into an egg-shaped bringal fruit and tasting of its piquant flavour.

Orsokon grimaced, and his eyes narrowed to blue slits. ‘The Sangasu is the Great Sand-Worm. The Serpent that sloughs its own skin. The Huing-Nu name it Ôb, I am told. What that means I know not, though our word is plain enough. Sangasu is Kurigaldan, it means Death-Striker.’

‘Have you ever seen the Sangasu?’ Corin asked.

‘No, never. But my Father did. He told me that it was the colour of sand above, and of night beneath. That it raised itself up in huge coils as thick as the girth of a horse. That its jaws were fanged and its eyes black and glittering in its scaled head, like enough unto the creature of the Serpent Stone. That it moved with terrible speed, catching up men and crushing them as it passed. That was the last time but one that my Father, Orsokon the First, dared journey into the Kisir-Oba. The last, was his downfall at the hand of Etzela, Dog-Face chieftain.’

Orsokon fell silent, and his face bore a brooding expression that seemed out of place in the sunny gardens of the Ziggurat.

At last, Menkeepir broke the stony hush. ‘What was your Father's mission, risking such dangers as those you tell of?’

The Wanax sighed. ‘He was quick to anger, as has been said. Etzela had plundered the borders of Kutha-Kesh stealing our crops for long time. The two were enemies of old, and warred as such. But sometimes...’ He halted in mid sentence, and seemed to ponder. ‘Sometimes I felt that my Father had another desire, a desire to see for himself what might lie beyond the Kisir-Oba, far in the sun-setting east. Oft times he would stand here where we now stand, and as the mighty sun took its way at day's end so, I guess, did his heart yearn.’

‘You think then that there is something more than empty, barren land, wild folk, and serpent-monsters that way. That there is some truth to the legends of Aplotha?’ asked Menkeepir.

‘That I do. Of course there must be more beyond those distant crags, be it the shades of the dead realms, or the abode of fearsome powers. Be it the lost seas of night, or the gardens of Lazulum Lapillus, or be it the ends of the world.’ He turned his turbaned head toward the stark Kisir-Oba, and in his lifting voice, continued, ‘Perhaps Mis-Kyang knew. Perhaps his pilgrimage, wandering in the wilds, took him so far. If that be true, the secrets are long ago lost. Mis-Kyang has never risen from the halls of our ancestors. Only the man who has been and returned may tell. And he, mindless of wit, told but scant amount before he died. No more, before, or after, do I know that have walked those fell ways.’

The next day, early in the morning, Corin and the company of Indlebloom made ready to depart.

Together, the Lords of Mendoth had decided to go on, daring the wild tracts of the Barren Mountains and the mysteries further. The others of Indlebloom, without exception, voted to follow their leaders, even after Mysingir had patiently explained the dangers that might lay ahead.

Bim was restless, and Corin realised that the elvish cat was sorely missing his own kind.

‘I miss them too, even Pitrag,’ said Corin, as he stroked the shiny fur between Bim's ears. ‘But it is useless to turn back. As best we know, the way through the Colle-Oba is shut to us now.’

‘We could rrride arround the mountain chain,’ suggested the cat.

‘Aye, Mysingir says that is possible,’ conceded Corin. ‘Yet that would not achieve the quest. I know, in my own heart, how much it means to you to be reunited with Silval and Elvra and the others. I too have thought often of them; wondered where they are, and of their safety. Still, I have to go on. To turn back now, would only mean to come again, sometime in the future. The answers that I seek, I believe, lie eastward; whatever those answers, good or evil, might be.’

To this, Bim said nothing; though Corin was aware that his small friend was still uneasy, and he himself had many secret doubts that he spoke of to none. Of these doubts the most prevalent was that he might be leading them all to their doom, somewhere out in the wilderness. Yet set against that solid thought were the intangible feelings; the waking convictions, and the sleeping echoes of dreams, that told Corin otherwise. ‘I am sure that this is the way,’ he told himself. ‘Oh, if only there was a sign to give me reason and strength, or light the road more clearly.’

But no sign, good or otherwise, was forthcoming.

Orsokon the second, Wanax of Kurigaldur, the Ziggurat fortress of Kutha-Kesh, addressed them last of all, before the east-faced gates of the city. Behind him, in convocation, were many of his saffron-robed people. And at his elbow was his wife Silver Tresses, cradling their son in her arms.

‘So now it is good-bye after this short time, though perhaps Indlebloom and Kutha-Kesh have salved the open wound between them somewhat. That is well for the Lords of Orenburg and the Wanax of Kurigaldur. If you return to your own folk, it shall be even better; yet you have chosen the longest and hardest path to such goal. Still, we will keep watch for your coming. May the supplies we have provided sustain you in your travels, and your beautiful steeds carry you there and back in safety.’

At this, Menkeepir, arrayed again in his gear of battle, covered by his flowing cloak, made a speech of thanks and praise to the Kurigaldans, and gave, as a token in redress, seven of the proud blue roans.

Orsokon appeared both surprised and honoured at the gift, so much so that he broke into his native tongue to inform his wife and subjects.

When the company rode down the long ramp that stretched toward the Kisir-Oba, lying blood-stained by the west rising sun, the Wanax and Silver-Tresses were already astride their newly acquired mounts; silhouetted now in the morning shadow of the enormous Ziggurat.

Corin turned and waved farewell. Bim moved restlessly upon his shoulder. Menkeepir, his face a set mask, urged his steed forward. Mysingir sang. They had not gone more than a few furlongs before a hail from their rearmost ranks made them draw rein. Looking back, they saw the whirlwind figure of the ogre cutting a swathe through a crop of young shoots, spiking up from the sandy ground. Moments later he was beside the lead horses, his stone club crooked in his arm, his mouth sucking in air and dribbling out spittle. For once he seemed to be breathing heavily, and his face was flushed a brilliant crimson.

‘Wot-you-do!?’ he demanded without ceremony.

‘Wot-you-mean?’ said Bim, brightening immediately.

‘Furry-thing-shut-furry-mouth!’ replied the ogre, all of a huff. ‘Hoo-hoom-Brôga-sleep-late-you-leave-Brôga-catch-up!’ he exploded.

‘We are no longer in your debt,’ said Mysingir, his hand straying to the hilt of his sword.

The ogre ignored this, saying, ‘All-meat-gone-into-Brôga's-tummy!’ He beat his hard belly with the club. ‘Wine-good-but-like-water-no-blood-all-gone-too!’ He smacked his big, full lips together, and his sharp teeth, with bits of stringy meat still caught between them, flashed.

‘The casks must have held white grape or Kumis,’ smiled Mysingir, relaxing.

‘No-blood-wine!’ boomed the ogre. ‘You-owe-Brôga!’

‘Surrprrising, he thinks this much,’ purred Bim amicably.

All at once the ogre made off in the direction they had been travelling; his huge, flat feet hitting the earth with a resounding thud at each pace. ‘Come-on!’ he shouted, beckoning. ‘We-go-now-till-Brôga-gets-blood-wine-you-not-get-away-again!’ And he stormed off toward the barren mountains of the Kisir-Oba like thunder.

‘Purrhaps,’ volunteered Bim, as they resumed their way, ‘this oaf will make a useful ally.’

Chapter 32 [next]