The Rise of Plant Man, Lord of War, Conquest and Revenge: Green Monk of Tremn, Part II (Coins of Amon-Ra Book 2)

by NJ Bridgewater

  “Have you come to destroy our faith, monk?”

  “No, I have come to reveal the truth.”

  They moved through the dark cavern, turning round bends and long shafts or corridors, ducking when the ceiling descended and avoiding stalactites and stalagmites reaching down and up from the ceiling and floor. It was damp, wet, and cold—they seemed to descend for ages, deep into the bowels of the earth. Their torches but dimly pierced the pitch blackness which engulfed them like an impenetrable veil. Their journey continued—on and on—until they reached a ledge; thankfully they saw it in time. Feeling around, they found steps carved into the ledge, descending back and forth in a zigzag pattern down to some unknown bottom beneath. These stairs they followed, carefully adhering to the wall to avoid an untimely drop until, finally, they reached the bottom of the cave-system. There they lost all sense of direction as there appeared to be an open, immense space all around them, in all directions, wrapped in absolute blackness and eternal darkness.

  “Methinks we’re in Gahimka itself!” Ifunka exclaimed.

  “No, we’re in the depths of Khanshaff—maybe even bordering on the realm of Asharru himself, Asharraff.”

  “Do you think he emerged from the darkness, then, like a worm from the clay?”

  “This is his place of origin, yes, or the gateway to his place of origin.”

  “Which way shall we go?”

  “Ask the ruby—it shall lead you.”

  Raising the ruby, which was fastened round his neck, he said: “Show us the way to the place of treasure, from whence this ruby was found.”

  At that moment, he felt moved to proceed directly forwards, as if driven by a hidden power. They proceeded until they reached another roofed cavern, taking them yet further down into the depths of the earth, descending gradually as the roof dipped, until they had to climb on their hands and knees through the small space that remained. This passageway they followed for a while until they reached yet another open chamber within the rock. The large, open space was larger than they could discern, their light barely illuminating twenty or thirty okshas in any direction. What they could see, however, was that the space was not entirely natural, the floor being purely smooth, as if flattened and smoothed out by ancient people eons ago in the distant past. They continued onwards, their footsteps echoing loudly, until they reached a ring of stone posts which extended more than forty okshas across and around a vast hole in the middle of the chamber. When they entered its circumference, spherical lamps illuminated themselves on each post, casting the entire the chamber in an ethereal glow. It was electronic lighting, powered by some hidden source below, a technology which the Tremna of this era were entirely unaware of and incapable of understanding.

  “What is this?” asked Ifunka. “Where is the light coming from?”

  “There are powers within here which hark back to the dawn of time,” replied the Priestess. “This was all built by Asharru when he entered our world, more than two hundred thousand years ago.”

  “If that is true, where did he come from?”

  “From the one you call Afflish, the Lord of Fire, whom the priests call Haff-Lîsh, which in our tongue means ‘Flame-Sire’.”

  “I suppose you think Afflish the Accursed is a god?”

  “Yes, though we do not worship him and his existence is not explained to the masses. We only teach the people of Asharru, because he is their god. We, the possessors of knowledge, know of the existence of Haff-Lîsh, who lives in another world; Asharru is his servant.”

  “So your power—the Sage’s power—they all derive from Haff-Lîsh?”

  “No, there is an ancient power contained within each stone, which was scattered across the universe at the beginning of all things, when the planets took shape and the men first walked the worlds. Then the stones were cast across the great expanse of the stars to every world.”

  “We must find whatever power still lies hidden within this circle and I must use it to save my friends.”

  “If that is what shall salve your conscience, my rabbit.”

  As they approached the hole, it became apparent that there was a sudden drop into some kind of fathomless abyss beyond which, at a distance of three okshas, was a seeming island, upon which stood a platform with a single cylindrical, coin-shaped object in the centre thereof. It was luminescent green, glowing the darkness—at the centre of everything. Several other objects could be seen on lower platforms circling the island.

  “Those are the objects of power!” Ifunka exclaimed. “I must have that coin at the centre!”

  “You do not know what it is capable of.”

  “Whatever power it possesses, I shall use that power for good—to fight evil and destroy Asharru.”

  “What if the power is too much for you—a mere mortal. What if it controls you?”

  “Does the ruby control you?”

  “Am I good or evil?”

  “Well…” he had no answer to that question.

  “In any case, the distance is too far. There is a gap of at least three okshas, and a chasm over which you must leap, descending into absolute darkness. It could be as deep as Tremn itself! The distance is impossible.”

  “He wouldn’t have left these things undefended. The chasm is its defence.”

  “You don’t know that that is its only defence.”

  “Be that as it may, we need to find some wood and construct a bridge.”

  “So we’re going back up to the surface?”

  “It looks like it. We’ll have to save my friends first and then return here.”

  “Where is the Priestess?” the Sage asked. “She was supposed to escort Asharru to visit the prisoner! Where has she gone?”

  He looked around her room frantically, peering under the bed, opening the cupboards.

  “The prisoner is missing. The Priestess is missing.”

  He summoned his deacons and ordered them to accompany a detachment of watchmen to search the Temple and the Council Headquarters. No stone should be left unturned, no suspicious person unquestioned, for the sacrifice must go on, and the prisoner must be found. He hated the thought of killing the Priestess. After all, she had served Shaffnâ well throughout the centuries. The ruby of attraction had kept her young and beautiful, seductive and charming—a power of attraction which had even made the Sage a slave to her charms, yet he was not permitted to enjoy them; he—the Sage of all Shaffnâ—could not unwrap her beauty and enjoy the pleasures of her flesh—while paltry virgin prisoners were allowed to do so in order for her to absorb their youthful energy before they were fed to the worm. Where could she possibly be? There is no way that she could have aided the monk to escape. How could that be possible? Yet she had clearly disobeyed orders and would need to be executed—with Asharru’s permission of course.

  “In any case, the sacrifice must go on!” he said to himself resolutely.

  He proceeded to the stage where the four prisoners were tied up, along with thirteen virgins selected from the populace, who had miserable countenances, preferring to be spectators themselves watching khaffshiks die rather than victims to their own monstrous god! Normally the ceremony would begin with the selection of the virgins whom the Priestess would enjoy but, since she was temporarily absent, they would proceed with the rituals of sacrifice in absentia. The Sage stood in the midst of the crowd, dressed in his flowery Tyrian-purple robes, and unrolled the Scroll of Sacrifice, detailing the rituals, chants and incantations to be used in the ceremony. He knew them all by heart, of course, but the scroll must be used as a matter of form. He unrolled the ancient parchment, looked at the ancient handwriting, and was about to open his mouth to intone the holy words when, of a sudden, an arrow whirred through the air and struck the Sage in the arm, piercing his flesh and spurting blood over his robes, sullying the parchment.

  “What in Asharraf!!!” he cried.

&nb
sp; “Let my friends go!” cried a voice.

  Chapter XIX.

  Plant Man

  A cloaked figure emerged from the crowd, his face obscured by pendant hood. Bow in hand, arrow poised, he leapt onto the platform. The Sage, benumbed by the sudden attack, had fallen to his knees in agony. The arrow had pierced his flesh right through, severing veins and muscles, scraping his humerus—or the Tremna equivalent thereof—releasing spurts of blood which distributed themselves in profusion over his garments and the parchment which he had dropped on the wooden planks. The watchmen, whose duty it was to guard the Sage, rushed forward at the mystery figure, axes and swords raised, to slice and rend the offender. The figure moved swiftly, releasing one arrow into the guardsman to his left, ducking another’s blow and stabbing the assailant in the back. Three other guards set upon him. Pulling an arrow from his quiver, he manually thrust it into the breast of one of them. Another swung his axe and sword in a pincer move. The cloaked figure ducked, narrowly avoiding decapitation. Butting his attacker in the abdomen with his head, he knocked the guardsman onto his back. Pulling another dagger from his belt, he lodged it firmly in the remaining attacker’s belly. He pulled the daggers free from their dying bodies, leapt onto the surviving guardsman’s body and plunged both blades deep into his chest. Retrieving the same weapons, he then cut Shem, Meyla, Arwa, Ushwan and Khalam-Sharru free from their bonds. The Sage—enraged—leapt to his feet, seized the arrow which was embedded in his flesh and snapped it.

  “Sheff khashla eyn-fach-zen okh-an-ô (where are my other watchmen)?” he screamed. “Shaff-ftosh bakh-krâ ffi lekhta khû khishyâkh-krâ! Khû shûm-krâ! Fteyka-khim khû shuffk-krâ (seize that man and flay him alive! Burn him! Cast him to the ffaika)!!!”

  “I think not, Shaff!” replied the cloaked figure. “Today your false god shall go hungry. Where is Ifunka?”

  “What do you know of Ifunka? Who are you?”

  “I thought you were a Sage. Where is your famed wisdom?”

  He handed a dagger to Shem while Khalam-Sharru seized a sword and axe.

  “Seize weapons: Ushwan, Meyla, Arma. Arm yourselves!” Khalam-Sharru cried. “We’re getting out of here or we’ll die trying!”

  “Eyn-fach-zen (watchmen)!” the Sage cried, summoning his watchmen. “Sheff ftâ-ga-yish-ô (where are you)?”

  Watchmen could be observed approaching from the opposite side of the plaza.

  “My own people stand like ignorant sheep and do nothing—nothing to save their holy Sage!”

  Seizing the sword of a fallen guardsman, he leapt to his feet and rushed at the cloaked figure.

  “Die, khaffshik!” he cried.

  “Who is the infidel?” asked the cloaked figure as he released another arrow—this time into the Sage’s other arm—his right—causing him to drop the blade, stumble and fall flat on his face.

  “Did you foresee that?” asked the figure. “Let’s go!”

  The companions, now armed and ready to defend themselves, huddled close together and followed the figure off the stage and towards the temple.

  “Where are we going?” Khalam-Sharru asked as he eyed the swarming guards who seemed to approach them from every angle. “This is suicide!”

  “We have to find Ifunka!” said the figure.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’ve been training—preparing for this mission for some time. I followed Ifunka and Shem’s tracks, met some individuals they had encountered along the way and found directions to this place. All that remains is to rescue Ifunka and get back to the valley.

  “We won’t even get to the Temple!” Khalam-Sharru protested.

  “O ye of little faith!” said the cloaked figure. “I have a surprise up my sleeve—a few surprises.”

  As they neared the Temple, a swarm of watchmen surrounded them. For a moment all was silent and still as the watchmen stood poised to rend each one of them into myriad pieces of bone and flesh. They appeared to await the Sage’s command, who was some distance behind, being carried towards them on a leather stretcher.

  “Each one take the hand of their fellow,” said the figure. “And, when the signal rises, follow me.”

  He reached into his cloak and pulled out three glass spheres and rolled them down his trousers. They emerged at the tip of his boots and rolled an oksha or two distant before cracking explosively. A vision-impeding gas arose, blinding the watchmen while the figure pulled the companions past the confused guards and into the Temple. Barring the door with a pole behind them, they rushed for the stairwell which leads to the underground caverns—the same that Ifunka had fled to earlier, accompanied by the Priestess. The guards of the Inner Sanctum remained to assault the companions, whom they overcame with their sheer force of numbers, stabbing and bludgeoning them to death. As they were about to descend the stairs, they could hear the doors of the Inner Sanctum swing open and someone step out. They felt a presence, even without looking—one evil, overbearing and full of imperishable rage. They knew, without setting eyes upon their enemy—that it was he, the false god, the embodiment of negation and darkness—Asharru—the servant of Afflish the Accursed—he whose name the true adherents of the Tamitvar seek refuge from day and night in their devotions.

  “In the name of the Lord of Darkness, look at me!” said a voice, deep, seductive, evil.

  “You don’t exist, false god!” cried the cloaked figure.

  “There is only one God—only one!”

  “But I am here, standing before you. Worship me, infidel!”

  “Let’s keep going—what doesn’t exist cannot harm us,” said the figure.

  “But he is real,” Khalam-Sharru protested. “I have seen him!”

  “You’ve seen a man pretending to be a god,” the figure retorted. “God is one.”

  “You sound like a monk, stranger!” replied Khalam-Sharru.

  “I was—now I am a free man but still a slave of the one true God—the Great Spirit.”

  “Ffen—is that you?” asked Shem.

  “It took you this long to figure it out?” he replied, pulling back his hood. “Indeed, it is I!”

  “But how?”

  “Never mind that.”

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha!” laughed Asharru. “You can’t simply wish me out of existence, monk. I am a child of the stars while ye are all bits of tarnished clay! Worship me or, indeed, ye shall all be killed by me—personally!”

  “What shall we do?” asked Shem.

  “Nothing—we continue,” replied Ffen. “If we ignore him, he is only an idea. If we see him, we acknowledge that idea’s substantiality. Until we gaze upon him, he is an abstraction, existing only through the faith of his believers, such as this man”—he pointed to Khalam-Sharru.

  “Khalam-Sharru,” the object of his pointing introduced himself.

  “Yes, well, your belief has brought this upon us. The mimra embraces both the real and the potential which emerge from the world of similitudes into this world. Asharru’s power, being darkness—a negation of all that is good—has no real substance. His power only exists in abstraction, as an idea which becomes real, materializing as you believe in it. Have you not wondered why he hasn’t attacked us while we ignore him?”

  “He’s biding his time, savouring our demise,” argued Khalam-hsarru.

  “Your fear fuels him; that is his power which realizes itself through the medium of the mimra.”

  “Die, mortals!!!” Asharru boomed.

  Khalam-Sharru turned and looked at the embodied deity.

  “No!” Ffen cried. “Now he exists! Until we see him, he has no form—only potential. Turn away!”

  “I cannot—I am his priest.”

  “Yes, you are my khalam; you were named for me,” acknowledged Asharru. “My servants give me being but Afflish gives me purpose. He is the lord of lords, the great dark one who shall conquer the lig
ht, who shall extinguish the stars in his everlasting fury!”

  “You wish, devil!” Ffen replied.

  “Khû bakh-krâ (seize him)!” Asharru demanded, ordering his servants to seize Ffen.

  Khalam-Sharru, now under the dark being’s spell, grabbed hold of Ffen, who dropped his weapons in surprise.

  “Stop it, Khalam-Sharru!” Shem shouted.

  Ushwan and Shem both tried to pull him off. In so doing, they caught sight of Asharru. Khalam-Sharru turned him such that Ffen ended up gazing into the creature’s face. They beheld a humanoid figure, seven-foot tall with dark red, hairless skin, ripped with veins, a large muscular head with protruding brow, wide eyes—black with yellow irises, white teeth like knives, and long earlobes with silver earrings. He wore armour up to his neck, a glistening cuirass, bevor, pauldrons, greaves, vambraces, gauntlets and other adornments, all of silver appearance but really composed of a metal beyond the ken of Tremna comprehension. In his right hand he carried a six-foot-long pike of the same material and, at his waist, he had a sheathed broad sword, a dagger and some kind of energy weapon—a blaster—on the left-hand side. At his back there flowed a crimson cape which descended to his ankles. He smiled, his vicious pincers of teeth (somewhat obscured by the bevor) shining brilliantly.

  “I am Asharru,” he said in perfect Tremni. “I speak your tongue as I speak Shaffi, and Vocatae, and myriad other tongues of men—from this world and other worlds. This is my planet now—I have ruled it through the Shaffu and the Theocracy for thousands of years. Even the emperors feared me—yea, even Kubba Gven trembled at my mention. The High-Kings of old—they knew of me; they kept their silence. Who does not know me? Who does not fear my master—Afflish the Great, Lord of Darkness? I am real, as you see me before you. Believe what you see, not what is invisible. Where is the Great Spirit? Has any man seen Him? But you have seen me, and I have seen Afflish. We are real—matter and energy. The Great Spirit is composed of what—Himself? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! You follow the Tamitvar, written by a man—Votsku, son of Kemi. He was a man misled by his own fancies. Does all your faith rest on the sayings of one man from the Age of Kings? Wake up and then bow to the god you see before you and denounce Votsku and his book of delusion, and cast the Great Spirit behind you, to the realm of vain imaginings!”