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

  “You don’t know your ancestry, Majesty,” said Ffen. “As for mine, the Weshgas are a proud family.”

  “A proud family of what?”

  “Bookbinders, your Majesty. My father was a bookbinder and his father before him, back to Weshga himself, our eponymous forebear.”

  “How many generations ago was that?”

  “Five, I believe. We came from Ritvator originally, being descendants of a lesser noble or knight perhaps.”

  “Mayhap we can find your ancestor in the city archives.”

  “Perhaps, Majesty.”

  “Why trouble you much over forebears?” asked Bosh. “I only cares for my ffentbaffs, which ye done killed!—and my braksh-wheat… I drinks my ale and I does my missus, or she does me as the case may be, and I seeds her with my hearty seed. When all is said and done, I has lived my fill o’ life and be done with it.”

  “Truth from the mouth of a simple farmer,” said Plant Man, satisfied with Bosh’s forthrightness. “But what of the Great Spirit?”

  “The priests’ll save my soul for Ganka.”

  “There you are wrong, my friend,” advised Ffen. “It’s the Great Spirit which saves the soul. It is adherence to the teachings of the Tamitvar which grants paradise to the true believer.”

  “I only know as I is taught. If I is taught faulty-like, then is as him what taught me as is should go to Gahimka to burn in flames.”

  “He and you both, I’m afraid,” Ffen clarified. “All men are responsible for their own selves, according to the Tamitvar. Have you read it or at least heard it?”

  “I can’t as I say I done read it,” replied Bosh. “As I ain’t able for to read, but I has heard something like, though as to what meant it, I can’t for to say. It’s all written poetry-like for that we simple folk don’t understand it not a whit. Methinks it’s them high-folk what wants us commoners to wot little of it.”

  “I see,” said Ffen, intrigued. “Education is essential, it seems, so that men’s souls may be saved. As Chancellor, I shall make it a priority.”

  “You’ve proved us right, Bosh,” said Plant Man, addressing him. “We seek to liberate every man from the shackles of ignorance. I guarantee you that all men shall be educated. None shall be excluded, not even your sons, Dosh. The priests want you to be unlettered; they want you to obey authority blindly. I tell you, theocracy is illegitimate; true authority comes from hereditary monarchy, which is a divine system, chosen by the Great Spirit. I am the true king of all Tremn and I shall give you peace, education and order under a just and honourable system.”

  “We has too much taxes,” complained Bosh. “A quarter of all our harvest goes to the Theocracy, for God knows what.”

  “I shall lower taxes and ensure that everyone pays the same, from the lowest serf to the highest lord.”

  “Then I shall support you heartily,” said Bosh.

  “And I,” agreed Dosh.

  “Release them and their families,” Plant Man ordered. “And give them each five silver zitve for their troubles.”

  “Most gracious, your Majesty!” they cheered as the ffentbaffs halted to let them down. “Long live the king!”

  They continued on their march. Within a short time, they reached the outskirts of Shainba, which lay in the shadow of a mighty aqueduct. This immense construction, twenty okshas high, stretched across the fields and through the villages until it reached Ffantplain. It originated far to the south, connecting with the mighty aqueduct ring which encompassed the entire Old Central Kingdom. Another connected with Ffantplain from the west and yet another to the east, stretching towards Ritvator, whence it extended north-east towards Kubbawa. As soon as the massive army became visible, an alarm was raised in the village, a small settlement of several hundred inhabitants. Men, women and children rushed out of their houses and, staring in alarm at the ranks of ffentbaffs massed together in a formation, juggernaut-like with inevitable progress, the like of which the Tremna call a galad (i.e. a military formation of a hundred or more ffentbaffs). The first to observe them was a young boy who ran to his mother, a milk-maid who swept up all her brood of children and threw them onto the back of a fat and lumbering ffentbaff.

  “Run, run, run, you fast cow!” she screamed in shrill voice.

  “What’s going on?” asked the boy.

  “It’s the end of the world, son!” she cried. “Afflish the Accursed has raised an army of demons to murder us all!”

  Others leapt onto biffbaffs or merely ran as fast as they could. The army swept past them and around the village, overtaking the fleeing villagers, some of whom were armed with scythes and pitchforks. They screamed and formed a circle as they were surrounded—kettled in.

  “Fear not!” Plant Man called out to them. “We mean you no harm. I am Plant Man, the bearer of the Verdant Coin, given to me by Amon-Ra himself. My name is Ifunka Kaffa, son of Kandaspu, and I am the true king of all Tremn. Submit to me and ye shall not be harmed.”

  “As ye wish, my lord,” said one elderly man who appeared to be the chieftain. “I am Wain Shainba, the chieftain of this village. On behalf of all of us, I relent. I am your humble servant.”

  “Very well,” said Plant Man. “Do ye all so swear?”

  “We swear it!” they shouted, in obedience to their chieftain.

  “Then return to your village in peace,” he commanded. “We seek Ffantplain, which shall open its doors to us or suffer the bitter consequences.”

  The villagers moved through the galad ranks and back to Shainba. At that moment, on the high walls of the city of Ritvator, a watchman stirred. He had been napping when a six-winged dakralish—a dragon-fly—bumped into his nose, waking him from his slumber. Blinking, he stretched and groaned. His companion, a boy of about eighteen, was fast asleep opposite him. He hissed and whistled, but the ill-featured lad kept sleeping on. His auburn hair hung over his plump bepocked cheeks and flat nose, his fingers like stubs and his leather armour hardly adequate to defend against a siege. At his side, there was a bow and arrow, which hardly looked much-used, being an ornament of his profession only. The boy was of a similar age, if not younger, his hair chestnut brown, his face thin with greyish, keen eyes and his bow and arrow evidenced of much use but diligent maintenance, each arrowhead shining with a fresh sheen.

  “Psst,” he called again. “Yobid—Yobid! Get up! We’re s’posed to be on watch.”

  “On watch for what?” Yobid groaned. “Ain’t nothing but villagers plompin’ and stompin’ in the fields, like.”

  “We can’t sleep and laze about forever, you old numpkin.”

  “I has a right mind to thwump you, one of these fine days, I has. Let sleepin’ rabbits sleep, as my old uncle says. Days are for sleepin’”

  “What’s nights for, you old piss puddle?”

  “For sleepin’ as well, o’ course,” he chuckled. “You take watch, Ffelka, you old biffbaff.”

  Ffelka stood and stretched, gazed out towards mighty Ffushkar and then, lowering his eyes upon the villages and hamlets dotted around the city, espied a train of ffentbaffs nearly three kobotvs long, thousands of soldiers armed to the teeth, a mass of supply animals, all holding aloft foreign banners and standards, indicating but one possibility—invasion. Panic-stricken, he could neither think nor move, and then he grabbed his beig-trump, which hung from a leather strap over his shoulder, and sounded it with all the breath he could muster. Yobid sprang to his feet perplexed and in shock.

  “Have you gone daft, Ffelka?” he cried.

  Again, he blew the trump, and a third time, alerting the watchmen to an invading army.

  “Heika!” he cried. “Ffantplain ho! Ffantplain ho! Heika! Ffantplain ho!”

  As Yobid stared out at the oncoming army, his eyes could not reconcile themselves with his raging mind.

  “Impossible!” he screamed, his voice all-too-effeminate and cowar
dly.

  “Who are they? Where have they come from?”

  “Ready your bow, Yobid!” Ffelka ordered him. “War has begun!”

  Five hundred beig-trumps sounded from the Shaffu ranks, diffka-drums beat like thunder, ffentbaffs bellowed and biffbaffs brayed. Plant Man cried: “Ishein heikra!” an archaic battle cry from the Age of Kings which means ‘Hail the King!’ while the reply, “Ishein hei! Ishein hei! Ishein hei!” resounded on thousands of tongues until every man, woman and child within the fast walls trembled.

  “What is that sound?” asked the befuddled Ffesh, Bishop of Ffantplain.

  “That, your Eminence,” said his Lord Chamberlain. “Is the sound of doom.”

  Chapter XXIII.

  The Siege of Ffantplain

  Ffantplain, a major city located in the western part of Ritvator Province, was a round, walled metropolis of twenty-seven thousand inhabitants, mostly descendants of the Houses of Kven and Ril, spanning half a tvinshaff in diameter with walls of solid granite, twenty okshas high and one and a half thick, presided over by the Head of the House of Kven, Kven the Fifth, fifteenth Lord of Ffantplain, whose title was purely ceremonial, while real power lay in the hands of His Eminence Ffesh, Bishop of Ffantplain and, after, him, the Ffantplain Council of Priests, of which he was the Chairman. His Lord Chamberlain, Dilwa, carried out his commands, while each district of the city was governed by a district priest who ensured that the Theocracy’s laws were implemented, and dissent was punished. Lord Kven merely appeared at ceremonial functions and signed the Bishop’s decrees in order to give them greater legitimacy. This was particularly necessary in Ffantplain, where the tribesmen of Kven had a strong bond of allegiance to their hereditary chief. While the House of Ril owed loyalty to a different chief, the Datvelipatv (or ‘Protector’) of Ritvator and Head of the House of Ril, Yiffwa the Second, they still regarded the Lord of Ffantplain as their liege lord to whom they owed military and other service. The Lord of Ffantplain also crowned each incumbent bishop with the ffitv (an episcopal hat)—the symbol of his authority—and bestowed upon him the rod and staff of office. The chiefs of Kven had had a troubled history, being the heirs and descendants of Lord Kval, who rebelled against Emperor Kishton in alliance with the Pretender Ush and King Shegwa of Ritvator. After the Battle of Ardesi, which decimated their people, the House of Kven resided mostly in Ffantplain itself and the surrounding towns, villages and hamlets, or in Tremael—the first city—which they settled along with the Houses of Kyeshob and Mael under the leadership of Vashab, Head of the House of Kyeshob, and was still ruled by his descendants.

  Like most cities of the imperial period, the buildings of Ffantplain were made of large stone blocks, granite, marble or concrete, circular in construction, with slightly sloping roves, iron gutters, round pane-glass windows, curving streets and no right angles of any form or shape. The entire city was thus an exercise in Euclidean geometry, with every path and thoroughfare bending around the circumference of a smaller or larger tvinshaff, leading to the three centre-most cylindrical buildings: the Temple of the Great Spirit, the Manor of the Lord (a palatial complex), and the Episcopal Headquarters (large yet plain and bureaucratic in its interior). Several round parks, plentiful with limbatv and kaptitv-trees, gebnav-bushes and flower gardens, with large fountains in the centre and statues of historical figures deemed suitable and appropriate to the interests of the regime, such as the Seven Fathers and Seven Mothers of Tremn, the Seer Votsku, Baku (the first Head of the Theocracy), Ishmael the Great, Kubba Gven and Kven, 1st Lord of Ffantplain. Poets and litterateurs (e.g. the poet Hashpa and the orator Mogshiff), religious scholars (e.g. the theologian Wentva and the commentator Yishpa), and great bishops also dotted the city in an endeavour to legitimize the present system by harking back to a halcyon age of legend and great deeds, even though the present age bore little resemblance to the glories of the past. The River Shiv, flowing from its source in the Varome Sintva, entered the city through a water-gate at the west of the city and, flowing through a curved canal through its centre, issued out of another gate at the east and then across Shivka to Ritvator. In his office, on the third floor of the Headquarters, Bishop Ffesh paced back and forth while Dilwa shook his head in dismay.

  “What are we to do?” he cried.

  “Invasion, your Eminence. We are doomed. We can arm every man, woman and child!” Dilwa cried desperately.

  “The watchmen are already moving to the wall, bows and arrows to hand, swords at their sides.”

  Dilwa was peering out the large round window at the south end of the office.

  “We can’t see who is invading from here. We must await word from a report.”

  “Blast the report! Bring me the Superintendent of City Defences, the watch commander and the Lord.”

  “The Lord, your Emimence?”

  “He may be a figurehead but we need him to rally the city to its defence. Just go!”

  Dilwa rushed out of the room, nearly tripping on his absurdly-long skirts. He was a short, pudgy man with an unfortunate girth, a stubby nose, squinty eyes, a near-bald head, except for short-cut tufts of light-brown at the sides, an impertinent chin, meaty jowls, stubby fingers and a mien of undeserved self-importance. He wore a long, silver robe and, around his neck, a round onyx pendant. He carried a tall crook, which he leaned upon to relieve his wearied toes of their too-heavy burden, making him appear to hop about like a bitv-frog which has eaten too many worms. In contrast, the bishop, wearing a ffitv, a bright crimson episcopal robe tied tightly at the waste with a knotted cincture, a gold pendant about his neck emblazoned with the metvek—the heraldic symbol of the Theocracy: a tree representing Melekraffu, the primeval tree, that same tree that Inta had sat under when he addressed the Seven Fathers of Tremn during Kultvum Dian, the First Day. Dilwa rushed orders to his stewards, who dashed about like mice, relaying messages and gathering information. The mere exercise of passing on these commands had Dilwa in a puff, causing him to bend down and rest his arms on his knees.

  “Dreadful job; why did my mother talk me into this? ‘Dilwa,’ she said. ‘Enter the service of the bishop. That’s a good job, my son, and very little exercise or work involved.’ If only she knew; if only she knew the work I do!!!”

  A steward rushed back to inform him of his intelligence.

  “My lord,” he said.

  “What is it?” Dilwa sighed. “Can’t you see I am busy?”

  He was busy doing nothing but resting on his knees.

  “Sir…”

  “Help me up! Can’t you see I’m struggling?”

  The steward lifted him up.

  “Yes? Get on with it!” he bellowed. “There are about ten thousand soldiers armed with swords, axes, bows and arrows; at least half are mounted on ffentbaffs. They bear a green standard with the image of an owl and the letters Minwa and Latis. They are currently circling around the city, preparing ladders and a battering ram, though the main force remains near the southern gate.”

  “What???” the Chamberlain cried. “Open the armoury, arm the reserves and give daggers and slingshots to boys and men, of any age. Lock all gates, heat the pitch and load the catapult!”

  “Sir!” saluted the steward as he rushed to pass on the orders.

  Within minutes, the Superintendent of City Defences, Tvem Liksh, the Head of the Watch, Sfen Wuksh, and the Lord of Ffantplain, His Lordship Kven the Fifth, Son of Kval the Second, Chief of the House of Kven, arrived, and Dilwa led them into the office.

  “Your Eminence, they have arrived,” he said, bowing to the bishop.

  “Yes, I can see that Dilwa.”

  “Your Eminence!” The three men bowed, even the Lord.

  “My bishop, they carry swords and axes and are mounted on ffentbaffs, at least five thousand infantry and a greater number of ffentbaff cavalry in the galad.”

  “Swords and axes?” pondered Kven. “Who carries
swords and axes but no shields?”

  “Only the… impossible!” the bishop hesitated. “It cannot be they.”

  “They who?” asked the Lord.

  “The demon-worshippers. No, we have an arrangement. They are a surety against revolution, not the means of it.”

  “Demon-worshippers?” asked Kven, perplexed. “Who are they?”

  “My Lord of Ffantplain,” said the bishop, addressing him. “All your airs of grace and authority notswithstanding, you have no idea.”

  “The secret is out now,” Dilwa observed. “We might as well tell him, your Eminence.”

  “Tell me what exactly?” the lord burst out, angrily.

  The bishop was unsure of how to proceed. He looked at Dilwa uncertainly while the two others stared.

  “Sir,” said the superintendent. “I do not wish to interrupt, but what is your command?”

  Tvem Liksh was a man of about forty, young by Tremna standards as their race can live up to two or three hundred years, with dark brown hair, brown eyes, a round face, cleft chin and long nose with a bump in the middle, wearing a military uniform, i.e. black leather leggings and a white leather jerkin over a black cloth doublet, over which he wore a steel cuirass emblazoned with the emblem of Ffantplain: a small kaptitv-tree beneath three five-pointed stars with the runic letters Latis (an angular R) and Yur (an angular E) to the sides, which represent the ‘k’ and ‘v’ sounds respectively, standing for Kven (this being also the emblem of the House of Kven). His doublet extended into bases (a military skirt), also in black—a typical element of the theocratic uniform. Over his legs he wore plate armour, as on his arms, with his hands protected by metal gauntlets. Around his neck there was a gorget and he wore a y-shaped barbute on his head with a metal ridge along the back thereof.

  The chief watchman, a perfunctory fellow with wispy blonde hair and an equally wispy nose, a large brow, pointy cheeks and chin, overly-small ears and blue eyes—the appearance of a man of duty for the sake of duty—duty to zitv and zelana at least. He was dressed in black leather trousers and a short black doublet, over which hung a hauberk with the insignia of the watch: a diagonal white cross like the Star of St. Andrew, and, on his head, he wore a visorless helm.