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

  “What the Great Spirit wills!” he cried as he held it in both hands. “Give me the power, Amon-Ra!”

  The coin began to glow resplendently with a verdant brilliance which encompassed his entire body. The glow intensified as it began to hum with some primordial rhythm which dated back to the beginning of the universe. Its power, derived from the primal force of the mimra itself, began to flow within him with incredible force and speed, filling his veins and sinews, transforming his inner and outer being. His green skin intensified, his hair began to vanish (including his iconic beard); his irises became a brilliant white. His flesh became firmer, more muscular, and coarse, like the skin of a vine. His head grew a new form of hair, vines hanging down like dreadlocks until he appeared to be a living humanoid plant, devoid of clothes but with modesty hidden by a hairy vine-like exterior which obscured his genitals. He was taller, fitter, more menacing in appearance, yet also noble, like some knight of old watching over the denizens of the land. He examined his body admiringly and then searched for the coin which had, he discovered, disintegrated within him and become incorporated into his body. Whether or not it could be reassembled and retrieved, he could not surmise.

  “The power…” he said with a new voice—deeper, more authoritative, stronger. “I am full of power. Methinks I am more than a man and yet something different. I am Plant Man!”

  “Raem Sapie (Plant Man),” said a voice.

  He turned to see the owl hovering behind him.

  “Celp avana iediad le (that is a fitting title).”

  “Ves celphic leso? Vesenra leso (what is this? What am I)?”

  “Phultaminttae le—pheum cub amen cub zuldanca maethraint. Egiptus thehoicra, vilma cub hepmi ademiacra cub Asarrum conecra. Taehrhon doun cacansa le, anauxtaehrhon phonasmut cacansa le aviumtaenra ca isic quirb (thou art changed—invested with power and responsibility. Forsake vengeance, embrace justice and mercy and defeat Asharru. Thy destiny is great as thine ancestry is great but I cannot tell thee all now).”

  “Hepmi? Hepmitomhrhon guodcarone dabrouso (mercy? Do my enemies deserve mercy)?”

  “Tem quei Cacansa Vabaic le (it is an attribute of the Great Spirit).”

  “Ithai egiptus le (so is vengeance).”

  “Egiptus Ramutam le (vengeance belongs to God alone).”

  “Vesenrahrhon doun leso—vesenrahrhon phonasmut le (what is my destiny—what is my ancestry)?”

  “Enra ca ucre voca—quirb deacra cub Asarrum conecra (I cannot say—go now and defeat Asharru).”

  Amon-Ra vanished. Ifunka began to walk to the chasm and cross the metal plank when his body sprouted myriad vines which bridged the gap, forming a new vine-rope bridge.

  “Marvelous!” he exclaimed. “I can cross any gap! Can I make vines at will?”

  He crossed over and then extended his arm, which sprouted vines flying off into the pitch blackness like projectiles until they struck a wall and clung onto its edge, more than fifty okshas distant. Pulling backwards on the vines until they were taut, he sprung forward and out of the chamber until he landed near the corpse of the Priestess. The vines retreated and reconstituted themselves within his herbaceous flesh. He knelt down and lifted the woman’s head, holding her on his knee.

  “I didn’t even know your name,” he said as his eyes welled with tears. “My heart has room for your love; you shall be avenged with Asharru’s life-blood.”

  He lifted her limp body onto his shoulders and then looked for the Sage’s corpse—it was gone! Looking round, he found a trail of blood, as if he had been drawn away at great speed. Firing more vines, Ifunka continued in leaps and bounds until he reached the base of the staircase. The blood trail led upwards to the Temple—the Ffâna—itself. Ifunka’s vines shot upwards, clinging to the temple ceiling and, bowing down on one knee, he sprung upwards, flying round the staircase until he reached the main chamber of the temple. There he found himself surrounded by an army of watchmen, poised to kill, while the Sage lay on a stretcher, half-dead, with two attendants cleaning and sewing up his wounds—how he had got there so quickly, he could not surmise. Placing her dead body on the temple floor, Ifunka raised his hands to address the warriors who surrounded him.

  “Heal her! Clean her wounds!” he pleaded.

  “Hafkha-yîm khô-yish,” said one of the physicians. “She is dead.”

  “She’s not dead!” he screamed.

  Seizing the physician with vines around his neck, he pulled him to the Priestess’s body.

  “Heal her!” he ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” the healer replied and set about washing her neck and sewing up her slit throat.

  “Why don’t you attack me?” Ifunka challenged the watchmen. “Am I not a worthy foe?”

  “Who… is… this…?” asked the Sage, each word uttered painstakingly.

  “Do you not recognize your slayer, Shaff?” returned Ifunka. “But I see why you do not, for I am changed. I am something more than I was; I am made new; I am Plant Man!!!”

  “Plant… ha… you’ve taken a coin of Amon-Ra; but Asharru is great.”

  “Sharru khan-ish (Asharru is great)!” the watchmen chanted in unison.

  “You’re a dead man, Sage; so where is your false god to challenge me?”

  The doors to the Inner Sanctum sprung open and all the assembled watchmen bowed down on one knee. As they all waited expectant—Ifunka included—a booming voice projected throughout the hall:

  “I am Asharru—the darkness which follows light! I am the death which shall consume thee while my servants live eternal! I am the giver of life and the remover thereof! Feel my wrath, mortal!!!!”

  Chapter XX.

  The Purge

  Even as all the assembled watchmen bowed to their deity, Ifunka—now refashioned as the insuperable and empowered Plant Man—stood expectant, but no deity appeared. Rather, all the warriors remained frozen in their pose of subservience and servility while Plant Man stood defiant and erect like a bear rearing its head in the midmost heart of the wilderness. He looked upon the bowing watchmen as his fallen foes, bowing to their triumphant conqueror. Thus did he look upon them as he strutted forth and walked among the motionless enemy and peered into the Inner Sanctum, which was peopled only by several maidservants who eyed him suspiciously.

  “Where is the speaker of that voice?” he challenged. “Are you thus non-existent, Asharru?”

  “Do you believe in me?” returned the voice.

  “I believe in the Great Spirit and the Holy Tamitvar,” Plant Man responded.

  “Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” the demon laughed. “I am also spirit though you cannot see my flesh.”

  “Where is your flesh?”

  “Do you believe I am flesh and blood?”

  “If it is true.”

  “Then here I am.”

  With a flash, Asharru appeared before him, pike in hand.

  “Your belief has given me flesh!”

  “As I shall give you death,” Plant Man quipped.

  Firing vines towards one of the watchmen, Plant Man seized his weapons and sprung at the demon, hacking and slashing at his armour to no avail. The foe responded by thrusting his pike, skewering Plant Man in the process. The pike had pierced him right through the chest but, unharmed, he used vines to propel himself backwards and off the weapon.

  “Impossible!” growled the beast. “I have slain you.”

  “I am unslayable, demon!” he replied defiantly. “There is not even a wound on my body.”

  His chest was completely resealed. Evidently, his entire frame was now a malleable, vegetable-generating system capable of self-regeneration, projection and controllable appendages and accessories, including vines, leaves and thorns.

  “If I can’t hurt your armoured exterior, I can kill you through other means,” he continued, sprouting numerous thorny vines which wrapped around Asha
rru’s mouth and neck, squeezing tightly with one forcing itself down the demon’s throat. He fell to his knees, gargling his own blood, and struggled against the choking vines.

  “Yes, die slowly, Asharru. Bleed slowly!”

  The watchmen arose to defend their lord, slashing at the vines furiously. As each was severed, Plant Man sent out yet more to replace them. The struggling beast extended his left arm and a beam of energy enveloped the Sage’s half-dead body. Miraculously, his limbs extended in white, glob-like masses and then took shape as arms, hands, feet and legs. His wounds healed, and he stood up, reanimated—restored. Picking up two swords, he charged Plant Man head on. Distracted, Plant Man was taken aback by the sudden assault. The Sage easily hacked off Plant Man’s arms, causing him to relinquish his vines and fall prostrate. Stepping on his erstwhile killer’s back, the Sage raised his swords, poised to deliver a death-blow by severing his enemy’s head.

  “Revenge is mine!” he cried.

  The stricken demon had recovered and stood tall, beaming.

  “Finish this pretended plant god!” he ordered.

  “I think not!” shouted Plant Man as vines sprung from his back and seized the Sage’s throat in an iron grip. His face went from green to blue as he suffocated. Plant Man’s arms, meanwhile, had regrown to their original shape and size.

  “Release him!” Asharru commanded.

  “Heal the Priestess and I shall!”

  “She is dead!” replied Asharru.

  “Then so is your precious Sage!”

  “Very well!”

  Asharru extended his arm towards the Priestess. The stitches in her throat fell off and the skin revealed itself. Her flesh lost its tawny pallor and became taut, fresh; organs were reconstituted, her heart began pumping and she inhaled suddenly. Springing to her feet, she looked around wildly, like an animal, moaning and shrieking.

  “Now release the Sage!”

  “What is this? What have you done to her?”

  “Her brain is ruined due to lack of oxygen. You are a fool.”

  “As are you,” he replied as he squeezed the Sage’s neck tighter until, gurgling bile, his neck snapped loudly.

  He flung the Sage’s limp body at the watchmen, who backed off cautiously. Extending his arm yet again, Asharru healed the Sage, who rose once more, vigorous as ever.

  “You’ll pay for that!” the Sage cried.

  “Indeed, you have achieved nothing,” said Asharru. “Finish the Priestess!”

  Grabbing an axe, the Sage flung it at the brainless woman, hitting her in the chest. She collapsed, dead once more.

  “No!” Plant Man cried.

  “Futility!” said the demon. “Utter futility! Now submit to me or I shall kill you.”

  “You cannot kill me,” said Plant Man. “I am immortal—pure vegetable life and the power of limitless growth. I cannot be destroyed.”

  “We have reached an impasse, Plant Man. What do you propose to do?”

  “You are sustained by belief, are you not, Asharru?”

  “Ha! Your belief sustains me, as do all my servants.”

  “Yet I believe you shall die!”

  Extending his arms wide, dozens of vines shot out in all directions, each one seizing the neck of a watchman and, squeezing hard, each one was strangled to death. Asharru raised his pike to attack but this too was seized by a thick vine which stole it from his grasp. The Sage flung out the vines with his two swords but was seized at the waist and, dropping his weapons, was wrapped around like a python’s prey, the vine slowly constricting until his ribs began to buckle.

  “You are a projection from the mimra,” said Plant Man. “I understand now. Once I have killed all your believers, you will not be able to return to corporeal existence but, rather, must fleet away to your master, Afflish the Accursed, and never return. Man, woman and child—all the host of your devotees, shall be wiped off the face of Tremn. Each and every one I shall slaughter, mercilessly, until none remain. This day, all infidels shall perish! This day, truth shall reign supreme!”

  Succumbing to their demise, the watchmen collapsed and were relinquished while the Sage, well-nigh suffocated, collapsed. Aiming his hand at the Sage, Plant Man released projectile thorns which embedded themselves in the Sage’s skull and neck. He bled out and was motionless. The demon, weakened, fell to his knees.

  “I don’t believe in you, demon. You have no name. You have no power. You do not exist.”

  Asharru’s body faded like a mirage at the edge of a dune, which evaporates when approached.

  “I exist… worship… me.”

  His words became weak and then, as the image vanished, so too did the sound of his voice. All that remained was silence. Plant Man stood at the epicentre of slaughter, surrounded by a mass of lifeless bodies—asphyxiated, with protruding tongues and frog-like eyes, with contorted faces and spread-out limbs, some on top of others while many clutched their throats, even in death. The bloody corpse of the Sage was the most mutilated yet, even now, Plant Man feared that he might once more spring to life—regenerated—and attack him with merciless fury.

  Gazing upon the carnage, he was well-pleased and, having taken it all in, moved to enter the Inner Sanctum. There, he found five women, wondrously beautiful, arrayed in light, woffgi-silk garments concealing their bosoms and waists. There was a large wooden bed, covered in gold leaf, a throne of ffentwash-bison ivory, meticulously carved, and an assortment of pillows and cushions lined against the wall in Oriental fashion.

  “Where did this demon come from?” he wondered.

  Searching the throne attentively, he found a small golden disk under the seat. Removing it, he observed that there were small indentations, as if formed through finger-tips pressed into the metal, on the face of the artefact. He felt these with his fingers and then turned it over to find a cursive script on the back. This, being undecipherable to him, he created a pocket at his waist and deposited the object.

  The maidservants of Asharru eyed him curiously as he continued to scan the chamber. They were almost characterless—undefined. Disturbed by this, he grabbed hold of one of them with a vine and pulled her to him. She was unstartled, as if nothing could alarm her. Examining her body, he could hear no heart-beat. Picking up a dagger from beside the throne, he made an incision in her chest and, cutting her wide open, found nothing inside, as if she were a mere shell. He clove her head-to-bellybutton and she merely fell into a pile of cloth, like a suit unfastened and discarded. Unsettled by this, he grabbed a torch from the wall and flung it at the cushions and bed, hoping to burn the lifeless automatons to death. He closed the door behind him and sealed the maidservants inside so that they could all be well-and-truly incinerated. Leaving the temple, he espied a throng of watchmen, hundreds upon hundreds, massing in front of him. Seizing the opportunity, he addressed the attendant crowd.

  “O people of Khanshaff!” he called them. “Behold, watchmen! I was called Ifunka Kaffa, son of Kandaspu, a monk of the Holy Order of the Brothers of Bishgva, but now I am something more—I am Plant Man, the lord of the vegetable kingdom, and I shall be king over all Tremnad and over all Tremn, and shall put to an end the tyrannical Theocracy and all its corruption and licentiousness. Everyone who opposes me shall be put to the sword and slaughtered. If any of you believe in Asharru and call him lord, I shall slay you here and now and shall burn your accursed city to the ground; even its ashes shall I feed to the ffaika and bones shall be playthings for the ffentbaffs. Not one of you shall remain alive unless you renounce Asharru completely, accept the Great Spirit as your true God and me as your sovereign liege. I have slain your Sage, burned your Inner Sanctum and defeated Asharru, banishing him to the void of nothingness and non-existence. So tell me, watchmen and people of Shaffnâ, do ye take the cup of submission or that of death?”

  “Temni gin-ôn kha okh-ish (I do not understand Tremni)!” shouted o
ne, while another shouted: “Khuff khaffshik ffogsh-ôn mon-ish-ô (what did the khaffshik say)?”

  “Can someone please translate for those two?” Plant Man requested, at which point a cry of “Sharru khan-ish (Asharru is great)!” rose up, drowning out further inquiries on his part.

  “That’s unfortunate,” he sighed. “I shall have to massacre them all before supper.”

  They charged at him, weapons raised. Plant Man merely extended his hands and a wall of trees sprung up from the soil, stymieing their charge. The trees circled round until the watchman forces were completely kettled—walled in by an impenetrable vegetable barrier of thick kaptitv trees. The watchmen fell to their knees in disbelief. Burying himself in the ground, Plant Man re-emerged in the centre of the circle, at the heart of the warriors who now had no means of regress or retreat. They turned to attack him, but he dodged their blows, toying with them until, transforming his arms into two great vines with hands-length razor-sharp thorns, he extended them across the diameter of the circle and spun them round at lightning speed, like the blades of a blender, reducing the watchmen to a mass of dismembered bodies and mutilated flesh and bone. He looked upon the carnage and smiled.

  “Such is always the fate of the evil-doers,” he quipped as he caused the trees to open up and allow him to pass.

  He marched through the square until he came upon the now-abandoned platform where his friends were gagged and bound. A formerly-sealed hole had opened in the ground—the opening to the lair of the ffaika.

  “The sacrifice!” he cried, remembering that his friends’ lives were soon to be lost.