“Shem!” he called out. “There’s a stone path. Come towards me! Go to your right!”
Shem turned towards Ifunka’s direction and ran with every last ounce of energy, leaping onto the stone path as the nearest of his pursuers lunged, lifting into the air, over the path and, having missed its mark, smacked its mouth firmly into the ground on the other side.
“Wait!” whispered Ifunka. “They can’t see us.”
It had dawned on Ifunka that the worms were following the sound of their footsteps. He and Shem both froze and ducked down, holding onto the stones. The worms carried on moving, as if anticipating the continued movement of their prey when, discerning that the sound had stopped, they likewise paused. Raising their bulbous heads, they swung back and forth, hoping to bump into their mark. The monks kept perfectly still, hugging the rock for dear life. The worms proceeded to rub their faces along the surface of the rocks until they came upon the monks’ backs. Two large worms rubbed their mouths up and down the monks’ bodies and, sensing something there, proceeded to extend their meaty tongues which, like slime-soaked giant slugs, doused their robes in thick, gooey saliva. Ifunka struggled to keep still as the mucousy muscle wiped across his ginger curls, the saliva running down his temple and over his eyelids. The tip of the other worm’s tongue touched Shem’s nostrils and almost felt its way into his mouth. He grasped his blade firmly and, saying a silent prayer within his innermost being, pulled it from the scabbard and thrust it into the head of the beast, piercing it through the chin and crown of its head. The blade was firmly lodged and the worm flailed up and down, retreating in chaos. The other worms, alarmed, lifted their heads and danced back and forth, like cobras stunning a mouse with their gyrations.
“They can’t see us,” Ifunka whispered. “We rush them one by one, then immobilize them.”
“There’s too many.”
“Five remain. You slice two; I’ll cut the other three.”
They stood up and, on the count of three, rushed at the worms, one after another, slicing their leathery bosoms open with knife and sword, spilling purple blood on the damp, ruddy forest floor. The injured worms flailed and retreated while Ifunka and Shem leapt back onto the path and rushed onwards towards the ditch. They slowed down as they reached its edge, leading to a moat—rather than a mere ditch—surrounding an inhabited settlement—the base of the Shaffu. The moat was not full; in fact, it had only a stream at its bottom, so Ifunka and Shem gently descended and approached with caution, hoping to taste the water. However, as they bent down to sip, they noticed that the sun had just descended over the horizon and the sky was beginning to darken. Mist descended upon the moat and obscured their vision. Faint lights appeared and began to encircle them.
“The shan!” Ifunka whispered. “They guard this moat. They are all around us!”
“What shall we do?”
“Leap the stream, run through them and climb up that ledge.”
“Impossible—they’ll catch us.”
“What choice do we have?—sit here and wait for them to kill us? Damn the shan and damn the fear they put into our hearts. Damn them to Gahimka!”
“Wait! The verse! The Yonff Poltiffog! Chant it, brother!”
“Yes, it worked before. Why shouldn’t it work now?”
As they began to chant the holy words ‘Roimelaffsholem roimemavtilei! Ramtukum gel poltiffavtilei…’ the shan melted away, as if anticipating the rest of the verse. The mist, too, subsided, leaving the brothers alone in the midst of the moat.
“Praise be to the Great Spirit!”
“Exalt His name!” Shem cried.
“Careful, let’s keep our voices down. There’ll be watchmen for sure.”
“With worms and shan and a thousand kobotv of thick forest on every side to keep them safe and secure?”
“Even so, there is no underestimating these vicious cowards.”
“Cowards are we?” came a voice.
The monks froze.
“Tseshayn-zen kha ftâkh-ish (we are not cowards)!”
“What tongue is that?” Shem whispered.
“The tongue of the Shaffu!” Ifunka replied.
“Shaffu!” the voice rejoined. “Ffadh-Shaffu ftâkh-ish! Kumkha-Sharru okh-ish, eyn-fach atolsha-zen Khanshaff-eym (we are the Sons of Shaffu. I am Kumkha-Sharru, watchman of the walls of Khanshaff).”
Ifunka turned to face the warrior whom he divined, through the similarity of Shaffi to Tremni, to be called Kumkha-Sharru. The warrior was clad as Jyoff had described, dressed in a long black robe held tight with a thick leather belt and brass buckle, carrying, in one hand, an axe with a long haft and sharp, iron head and, in the other, a jagged blade designed to rip flesh and bone with every blow, making all attempt at healing vain. The victims of their blows would surely die as blood spilled and flesh, mangled beyond recognition, hung hazardously off the bone.
“I am Ifunka Kaffa, a monk—a simple monk—and this is Shem Effga; we mean no harm. Take us prisoner, great warrior.”
“Ftosh kha vamdha-yish, khaffshik (That is not possible, infidel)!” came another voice.
To their left, another warrior, similarly-clad and armed, appeared. Both faces were obscured by their hoods.
“Nayakht-Offash okh-ish (I am Nayakht-Offash)!” the second watchman continued.
“Why don’t they just kill us?” Shem whispered.
He stared at one and then the other, his heart racing. There was no way to overcome such skilled and powerful warriors.
“If they speak Tremni, they should be talking to us in Tremni.”
“They’re toying with us and, at the same time, I think they’re cautious. We’re the first to reach so far into their territory and live.”
“If we can kill them both, before they sound the alarm, we’ll still have the element of surprise.”
“Indeed, but how? Tvem only taught us the first two movements of the nine-fold path.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” Kumkha-Sharru laughed. “Kill us? We are endowed with excellent hearing and we do speak your foul, khaffshik language.”
“Khaffshik?” Ifunka did not understand.
“Infidel,” he replied. “Ye infidel scum! What impetuous pieces of filth to come this far into our sacred territory and befoul it with your unclean feet. Khaffshik filth! Great Spirit-worshipping bastards! We do know what to do with you. Your bodies shall burn on the pyre in sacrifice to mighty Asharru, who dwells among us in the flesh. Yea, we shall feast upon your meat and crack your bones to suck away the marrow within. Your blood shall fill our goblets and your skulls shall decorate our Great Hall. The fire shall cleanse the unbelieving filth from off your cursed bodies by the grace of Asharru, who is born of eternal flame, while your god is naught but imagination and idle fancy. I laugh at your Tamitvar and its pretentious verses. I spit on your monastic vows and your meaningless prayers. Now, I shall take you prisoners so that we might sup on your virgin flesh.”
“Virgin! Ha, ha, ha!” Nayakht-Offash laughed in scorn. “Bastard virgins! Come and feel the fire!”
“If you are going to kill and eat us, what motivation do we have to give ourselves up?”
The watchmen laughed.
“What choice do ye have, monks? Your puny arms can barely hold a butter-knife, let alone a man’s blade!”
“Let’s say that’s true,” Ifunka continued. “It would not be fair, or honourable, surely, under your god or mine, for both of you to fight me at once.”
“Single combat, then?” Kumkha-Sharru was intrigued. “I have nothing to fear from thee, khaffshik! Come, then, face me and see what the result shall be. I shall only maim thee so thy flesh shall remain sweet!”
“Well, then, come watchman—face this puny monk,” Ifunka challenged him. “Let’s see who the infidel really is.”
He unsheathed his sword, still wet with purple blood. Shem stood away
from him, his back resting on the bank. Kumkha-Sharru raised his axe and jagged blade and charged at Ifunka. Ifunka stood, motionless, as if numb to the danger and certain death that rushed towards him with such rapidity. Then, counter-intuitively, he sheathed his sword and pulled a staff which he had fixed to his back. Holding it with both hands, as he had been taught by Tvem, he stood, like a rock, his feet firmly placed and steadfast. The foeman was only one oksha in front of him. Ifunka breathed in deeply and exhaled. Then, swiftly and mechanically, he raised his stick in a defensive position, blocking his enemy’s first blow from the axe. Before the fiend could strike again, he knocked his enemy on the chin with a swift upward motion of the staff. Then, grasping it on the end, like a sword, he thwacked the watchman across the head, cracking his skull in the process. Thus, with the second movement of the nine-fold path, he had mortally wounded his attacker.
Nayakht-Offash, enraged, rushed to attack his friend’s killer. Shem leapt forward and struck the watchman’s knees with his staff, cracking his knee-caps. Immobilized, his weapon thrown by the fall, the watchman flailed on the ground in agony.
“Finish him!” Ifunka ordered as he withdrew his blade to dispatch Kumkha-Sharru.
“Finish him? Is that what we’ve become—murderers?” Shem protested.
“We have killed clay men, have we not?”
“They were beasts—these are men like us.”
“They are not men like us,” Ifunka replied sternly. “These are bloodthirsty infidels who spit upon the Holy Tamitvar. They curse the Great Spirit. Death is quick justice for the unbelievers.”
“Is this justice or vengeance, brother? What would Tvem do?”
“Are you blind, Shem? He would send these brutes to their quietus as swiftly as you have smashed that infidel’s knee-caps!”
“I fear for our souls if we do this thing.”
“Your souls?” the fallen watchmen grunted. “What souls? You khaffshiks are flesh only—flesh to be eaten. Within you is only a pale ghost which shall wander, hungry and forever miserable, in the bowls of Tremn. We, the children of Asharru, the living god, shall dwell forever in his eternal realm, Asharraff.”
“Lies!” Shem exclaimed. “I want to save your life and you insult us with these putrid lies?”
“If you will not do it, Shem, let the burden rest on me. I shall spill their blood.”
“Do it, fools!” Nayakht-Offash challenged them. “I shall live forever. Asharru lives—the Great Spirit lives not!”
“Lying scum!” Shem shouted, enraged.
He raised his staff and brought it down on the watchman’s head, splitting his skull open and releasing a torrent of blood upon the ground. Ifunka grabbed Kumkha-Sharru by his forelock and, lifting it to reveal his still-unconscious face, slit the watchman’s throat, blood spurting out across the muddy banks of the stream, dying it red. Ifunka’s hands and arms were soaked in warm blood, his face splattered with droplets thereof. Wild-eyed and exhilarated, he exclaimed:
“Praise be to the Great Spirit! Thus die all who oppose the truth—all infidels and oppressors.”
“There’s no going back now, is there?” asked Shem rhetorically. “We’ll have to kill them all; every last one of them.”
“They’re pure evil, Shem. They deserve to die.”
“Even so, are we the dispensers of divine justice?”
“We’re monks—we are His agents.”
“In any case, let’s clean up, eh? We need to get into that town and avoid detection.”
“We don’t have much time before the next lookout comes to replace the first watch. Then the alarm will be raised. We’ll have to hide well.”
“Come then!”
They washed their hands and faces in the stream and then began to climb the ledge. When they reached the cusp, they peered over but could see only a thick, stone wall topped with battlements consisting of a crenellated parapet with triangular merlons; arrow-slits were visible within the crenels. Whether these were defended or not, they could not easily surmise. Yet, if there were watchmen in the moat, there would have to be more defensive soldiers lining the battlements. Doubtless, within the city itself, there would be yet more watchmen.
“Stay low,” urged Ifunka. “There might be eyes on the walls.”
“What shall we do?”
“We stay silent—we creep up—kill the guard.”
“Then what—the city is swarming with infidels.”
“We’ll have to find a house, tie up the inhabitants and keep quiet until we can figure out where Brother Ushwan is being held captive. We’ll go from there.”
“Go from there? The odds against us are impossible.”
“But we are in the right. We are followers of the good religion. The Theocracy be damned, we shall do something here which shall reverberate throughout the ages. We shall drown these curséd evil-doers in their own blood, tear them limb from limb; only death can make them pure.’
“Well, then,” said Shem. “Let’s go. If we are going to do this thing, let’s do it.”
“Go!”
They scampered to the wall and began to climb, fixing their fingers in the crevices, nooks and crannies and pulled themselves up, stone by stone, until they reached the parapet. Ifunka was first over. He peered across the battlements and, seeing no guard, lifted himself up and over. Shem followed.
“Keep close, brother,” Ifunka cautioned.
“Where are they—where are the guard?”
“They could be moving around as we speak—around the circumference of Khanshaff. Quickly!”
“Can’t we just go over, without killing the guard?”
“They’ll be the first after us, once they discover that the two watchmen are dead. The more we kill, the safer we shall be.”
They stealthily moved along the ramparts until they spotted two watchmen—they evidently always move in pairs.
“We rush them, stab them quickly, then descend the inner wall.”
They did as planned, stabbing the watchmen through the chest and back before they could retaliate. As the lifeless bodies sank to the cold stone they carefully descended into the city, which was dark enough that they appeared as mere shadows moving across the face of the lofty stones, unremarked and unnoticed by the oblivious Shaffu. The houses of the Shaffu were large, two stories high made of large stone blocks fixed together with cement, buttressed by wide balconies on the upper floor and red-shingled roofs. Windows consisted of numerous coloured glass planes in a circular shape. The walls were bestrewn with yenksh-vines—thick, rough, red rope-like plants hanging from the roof. They climbed up the first vine they came across and, with much exertion, reached the balcony.
“Right, we capture—not kill—them.”
“Agreed,” Ifunka replied.
Swords sheathed, they raised their staffs and circled the balcony until they came to a door leading into the house.
“Dare we enter?”
“In the name of the Great Spirit,” Ifunka replied softly.
The door creaked open and they found themselves with a torch-lit room covered in richly-intricate carpets and tapestries, covering the walls, and cushions all around. The room was empty but there were obviously inhabitants around, and perhaps servants also. A sweet smell of incense pervaded the chamber, creating a sense of harmony and tranquillity, which they had not expected to find in the heartland of impiety and disbelief. They felt out-of-place and uneasy about when they would encounter another of the Shaffu and who it might be. Hushed voices, and a door opened, or slid open rather, and two figures, ravishingly beautiful, stepped into the room.
Chapter XV.
rva
Two light-green women, one with long, black tresses reaching down to her elbows and the other with short, chestnut-brown curls, stepped over the threshold and into the room which Ifunka and Shem had just entered hoping to kidnap t
he inhabitants and set up base within. Like the other Shaffu they had so far encountered, their skin was radiant, verdant and shimmering, like marble, smoothly-polished, catching light. Their eyes were dark-brown, mysterious. Their features, likewise, were statuesque, as if they were hewn out of a solid block of stone, rather than living, breathing Tremna. Their chins, cheeks and brows were prominent, and their eyes somewhat sunken within their sockets, yet they were immensely—almost ethereally—beautiful, like angels descended from Ganka—more splendrous in appearance than any icon or idol, more brilliant than any mural or tapestry, and more luscious in their seductive effulgence than any man could have conceived in his wildest fancies.
Their heads rested upon long, delicate necks and well-proportioned bodies, well-endowed with femininity, with long, elegant hands and feet. The long-haired beauty was dressed in a long, Tyrian-purple nightdress which hung from her body like a veil, hiding her best features. The other woman, more servile in her manner, was fully-dressed in the attire of a maid-servant; white stockings hugged her calves, resting upon mocha-brown slippers. Her dress, descending to the knees and extending to the elbows, was of the same colour, fashioned from meb-goat wool. The dress was loose around the legs but tight around her fulsome bosom and reached up to, but not covering, her collar-bone.
The Rise of Plant Man, Lord of War, Conquest and Revenge: Green Monk of Tremn, Part II (Coins of Amon-Ra Book 2) Page 4