“The mimra? Yes, we’ve heard of it,” said Ifunka.
“Well, I haven’t,” said Ushwan. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it.”
“The mimra can only be used by the righteous,” said Shem. “Tvem told us so.”
“Perhaps,” said Khalam-Sharru. “I don’t fully understand the nature of his powers. Anyway, pack up your provisions. We need to scale the wall and get out of here. It’s only a matter of minutes before someone discovers what’s amiss.”
“I pack everything,” said rva. “With Meyla help.”
“Excellent, let’s be off,” Khalam-Sharru suggested.
Each companion, including Ushwan, had a rucksack full of food and other necessaries, as well as water-skins. Ushwan was given full Shaffu attire in order to blend in during the journey. Khalam-Sharru also carried a skin full of wine. In addition, they were supplied with a dagger, ropes and other equipment. Khalam-Sharru left first, examining the surrounding area and observing the wall. He called the others out, one-by-one.
“The wall is too dangerous,” he said. “We can’t go that way.”
“Why ever not?”
“Look, the wall is heavily guarded. They must have discovered that the watchmen stationed there have been murdered.”
“Well then, what can we do?” asked Ifunka. “We’re doomed.”
“No—if we scale the wall we’ll look duplicitous. If we exit the main gate we can invoke my authority.”
“Well then, let’s go to the gate,” said Ifunka.
“Alright, let’s hurry!” said Khalam-Sharru.
They went through the backstreets and alleys, avoiding attention, until they made it to the vicinity of the main gate which was secured by six guards, three on each flank, similarly clad as the guards in the prison.
“Follow my lead—do not speak a word!” he warned.
They approached the gate, Khalam-Sharru in front, followed by Ifunka, Shem and Ushwan, each with hoods raised and faces obscured. The guards stood at attention and greeted the companions:
“Sharru khan-ish (Asharru is great)!” they proclaimed.
“Sharru khan-ish (Asharru is great)!” Khalam-Sharru returned the greeting. “Ftâ-gei hufft-ôn ftâkh-ish (I greet you)!”
“Vâ khâd-ôn ftâ-gei-yish-ô (why are you leaving)?” the chief guard asked.
“Ffamlîsh Veft-eym-em dift-ôn ftâkh-ish (we are going to the village of Veft),” Khalam-Sharru replied.
“Vâ? Kulft-fto yamakhsh-go khaffshik-zen-eym-ish (why? Today is the sacrifice of the infidels).”
“Shîb khôr-ôn ftâkh-ish, yûm baba okh-an enval ftâkh khon-ish (I know it, but we are going to visit my father),” he explained.
“Hamta (very well),” the guards accepted.
They opened the gate and allowed the companions to go through unhindered. The other side of the gate was guarded also; the guards merely stared on as the companions took the main road leading into the dense forest of zasht-willows, bifurcating at a point where it led either to the villages to the south or the territory of the forest worms to the north. The direction they took was curved away from the way that Ifunka and Shem had taken to reach Khanshaff.
“What did the guards ask you?” asked Ifunka when they were a safe distance away.
“They said the sacrifice is tonight and asked why we were leaving.”
“What did you reply?”
“I said we were going to visit my father in the village of Veft.”
“Well, are we?”
“Yes and no; it will be safer that way. We’ll stay in the village tonight and go to the deep forest tomorrow. They will think we’ve gone directly to the forest.”
“But you’ve told them we’re going to Veft.”
“Initially—but we’re actually going to Sharmakh, two kobotvs to the west of Veft. I’m not visiting my father at all.”
“Well, then—at least we’re safe now, whatever route we take,” said Shem.
“I wouldn’t be sure of that,” said Ushwan.
“We are free from the city—that’s what counts,” argued Khalam-Sharru. “Tomorrow we’ll enter the forest from a point they do not suspect. Then we’ll move swiftly back along the route you took previously.”
“To Lake Ffush and then Ffash Valley where Ffen is awaiting us. There we will fortify the Valley and build a new life,” said Ifunka.
“Very well, my old life is finished,” Khalam-Sharru continued. “The people of Sharmakh will keep us safe. They are my vassals. My family has ruled Sharmakh for three hundred years, since they inherited it from the Sage of that era.”
“Inherited? Why did they inherit from the Sage?”
“That’s not important,” Khalam-Sharru replied abruptly, shrugging off the matter.
They continued along the path for two kobotvs, until they saw a cart approaching from the distance.
“Let me do the talking,” advised Khalam-Sharru.
When the cart was only a few okshas distant, they saw that it was a hay-cart pulled by a single ffentbaff. At the head of the cart was a farmer with a geltv-hat and a thick brown robe and sandals. The cart halted as the driver tugged on the reigns. The ffentbaff grunted and stopped.
“Ftâ-gei hufft-ôn okh-ish (I greet you),” greeted the farmer.
“Ffi ftâ hufft-ôn ftâkh-ish (and we greet thee),” Khalam-Sharru replied.
“Sheff dift-ôn ftâ-gei-yish-ô (where are you lot going)?” asked the farmer.
“Veft-em dift-ôn ftâkh-ish (I’m going to Veft),” he replied.
“Veft? Ffâm-em dift-ôn okh-ish (Veft? I’m going to the city),” said the farmer, indicating that he was going to the city. “Yamakhsh-go envakh okh-ish (to see the sacrifice).”
“Hamta. Hamta ish-krâ (well, farewell),” said Khalam-Sharru.
“Hamta ish-krâ (farewell),” he said in kind.
“Shakhrô-krâ (wait)!” came a voice.
“Khuff (what)?” asked the farmer. “Vâ (why)?”
A cloaked figure emerged from the back of the hay-cart. His face was obscured by his hood. He walked slowly up to Khalam-Sharru, Ifunka and Shem, looked at each one carefully and then told the cart driver to go without him:
“Dift-krâ, â okhlensh. Okhlensh-zen khozen-ish (go, friend. These are my friends).”
The cart-driver nodded and continued on his way, leaving the stranger with his new acquaintances.
“Okhlensh-zen-ô (friends)?” asked Khalam-Sharru.
“Friends, yes,” replied the stranger in Tremni.
Startled by this revelation, the companions pulled out their daggers and swords.
“Who are you, devil?” Khalam-Sharru demanded. “Why do you speak Tremni?”
“I don’t know you, stranger,” he replied. “But Brother Ifunka and Brother Shem are my friends and former companions. I’ve been looking for them for ages. Is this Brother Ushwan?”
“Damn it, man, who are you?” Khalam-Sharru repeated.
“Can it be?” asked Shem.
“Yes, it is,” said the man. “It is I—your friend—the bard.”
“Praise be to the Great Spirit!” Ifunka cried.
He rushed to embrace his friend.
“Indeed. Heika! Heika!” cried Shem.
“Old friends!” exclaimed the bard joyously.
He held them both tightly.
“Show me your face, man. Shall we not also greet you?” asked Ushwan.
“Hold on a moment!” replied the bard. “I have not seen my friends in many days. Give us a moment!”
The bard held Ifunka and Shem’s hands in his grasp.
“Tell me,” demanded Khalam-Sharru, suspicious. “What is your name? And how came you to speak Shaffi?”
“Shaff.”
“Shaff? That is our word for ‘man’!”
> “No, it is Tremni for mellifluous—like honey flowing.”
“Very well,” replied Khalam-Sharru, unconvinced. “What is your surname?”
“Tolwa—and I’m from Weffbar, if you must know.”
“Weffbar? That’s on the edge of our territory! Show yourself!”
“Khalam-Sharru, do not disrespect our friend,” said Ifunka. “He helped us to reach this place before he was lost to the clay-men.”
“Yes, well, how did he survive? Have you considered that?”
“I’m sure he’ll tell us in good time!” Ifunka defended him.
“Leave him alone, infidel!” Shem exclaimed. “What do you know of true friendship and sincerity? He saved us! He almost gave his life for us!”
“Yes, trust me, Shaffu villain!” Shaff cried. “I am who I say I am.”
“Then show your face!” Khalam-Sharru boomed. “Or shall I run you through with my blade?”
“Hamta,” said Shaff in Shaffi. “Or ‘very well’ as the Tremna khaffshiks say.”
“Shaff?” Shem was confused.
The bard raised his hood.
“Metshu (Sage)!!!” Khalam-Sharru cried.
“Indeed, I am the Sage and you are my servant—and cousin—Khalam-Sharru. Asharru be praised! He has delivered you all into my hands.”
Ifunka and Shem tried to grab him, only to realize that their wrists were bound with a firm rope. Ushwan and Khalam-Sharru raised their daggers. Shaff, with a flick of his wrist in the air, knocked the blades out of their hands telekinetically.
“Impossible!” Ushwan exclaimed.
Raising his own staff, he hit Khalam-Sharru and Ushwan on their heads, deftly and with one swing, knocking them unconscious in the process. He grabbed the girls and tied their hands.
“Shaff!” Shem screamed. “Who are you?”
“I am the chosen servant of Asharru. I have indeed led you here, as sacrifices to the great god of all. I am no bard—I am the Sage, filled with terrible power and malice. I am no friend to either of you.”
“We loved you—we believed in you!” cried Ifunka.
“Your faith, then, was in vain, fools!” Shaff scorned them. “I am the servant of the great and powerful one—the living god—who has gifted me this power. I am called Ffûtish-Sharru by birth—the razor-sharp sword of Asharru, and I am the Lord of the Shaffu; I am Shaff-Nayakht-go by reputation, the Man of Darkness, and I am Metshu—the Sage!”
With another blow of his staff, he knocked Ifunka and Shem fully unconscious.
Chapter XVIII.
The Sage
A voice spoke softly, beautifully, reciting a poem in a melodious tone:
“Vukt—ramtiffog kakshu shipon ishkikim itvkra / ffant kakshureffur ffoltavt kakshuffash / Kanshaff kakshufi, kakanfi, kraifi yaokra! / amantv Ffushkaryengzivt lamavt tvatorffash / Asharru nashiffah, Asharru gera itvkra / vairo kamame affrayeng shiyizovt zatvffash / offtishilem patrik shumavt yaokra! / rumiog Asharruyengim talkra ffash!”
(“The sun—its brilliant glow be told / Shines brightly o’er the city bright / Khanshaff—lo!—brilliant, great, and old / stands eternally in Ffushkar’s might / Asharru fearsome, Asharru be bold! / shall swiftly drink the blood of virgins cold! / Lo! The fire burning in the night / Fire send them thus to Asharru’s hold!”)
Ifunka awoke slowly; his eyes were heavy and he felt a powerful pain move through his whole body like water flowing from a spilled beaker. The poem rang in his ears, consumed his thoughts as he struggled to assert control over his bruised and aching body. He found that he was suspended, his arms in iron manacles hanging from the wall and his feet likewise cuffed. He struggled, tried to tear himself free, but it was useless. He was imprisoned, shackled to a cold stone wall, his clothes ripped from his body to reveal a muscular physique perfected through much travel, fighting and travail along the journey. His hair was dishevelled, his head bruised and cut, and his arms and legs lacerated. His bare feet were bruised, barely able to sustain the weight of his languid body. He was naked, save for a loincloth, and the room in which he found himself was cold, such that he shivered intensely. He looked around frantically to see if he could find his companions.
“Oh, believe me, they are safe,” said a voice. “At least as safe as you are.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he cried.
“I only mean to say that we have not beat them more than you have been beaten—nor any less.”
“Damn you! Damn you!” he cried.
“Oh, my dear monk, is that any kind of language for a pious man such as yourself to use? Is not every moment a fitting occasion for devotion and praise of your Great Spirit? What do you hope to achieve through curses and hatred?”
“I mean to know where I am and where my friends are.”
“Quite safe. Did you enjoy the poem? It’s a translation from the Shaffi—not as beautiful in khaffshik tongue, mind, but still I managed to render it in good enough form, don’t you think?”
“Shaff, is that you?”
“Shaff? That is a mere pseudonym. You may call me Shaff-Nayakht-go, Ffûtish-Sharru or, quite simply, the Sage. I shall call you khaffshik.”
“Look, Shaff. Show yourself. I can’t bear this trickery. For old times’ sake, at least give me the courtesy of seeing you.”
“Do you hope to convince me to release you by virtue of our previous friendship? That was all a charade, khaffshik, an ingenious charade which revealed your true purpose and allowed me to anticipate your arrival here, in my glorious city.”
“What do you gain by all this, Shaff? Isn’t it clear to you that we mean only to save our friend and get out of here? We’re not virgins any more anyway. What would you gain by killing any of us?”
“Oh, it’s not as simple as that,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Not at all. You mean to tell the world about this place—to inform them of the conspiracy which lies at the heart of the Holy Theocracy of Tremn. I can’t allow that—no I can’t. If I allowed that, it would mean the end of our way of life. You see, you had to be stopped, one way or another. Whatever pretence of friendship I may have evinced towards you, my real intention has always been to scope out the land, find suitable victims for sacrifice and identify any potential threats to Shaffnâ.”
“I see,” Ifunka replied. “But tell me where my friends are, at least. I need to know.”
“Why should I care what you need or want?” asked the Sage.
“Because I believe there is good inside you.”
“Then you believe wrongly. I do not believe in good or evil—only in what is best for Shaffnâ, in obedience to mighty Asharru.”
“He doesn’t exist!” Ifunka cried.
“Doesn’t he? You shall see soon enough, when you are face-to-face with him.”
“Are you going to kill us?”
“That is for Asharru to decide; he is all-wise.”
“Damn it, Shaff! Let me go!!!!”
Again and again, Ifunka tried to break free but it was no use. The iron shackles could not be escaped. The Sage laughed and walked away; his footsteps could be heard receding. Ifunka was left alone with despondent thoughts and battered body. He had obviously been beaten or dragged to the prison or dungeon where he was currently being held.
“O Great Spirit! Help me!” he cried as he pulled at his shackles.
Sinking into despair, he fell to his knees and wept.
Hours seemed to pass—or perhaps only minutes; he couldn’t tell. It seemed as if all were lost: their plan, their escape, their reunion with Ushwan—all was in vain. His beloved wife, Arwa, whom he cherished as dearly as his own heart and soul—would he ever see her again? The Sage would doubtless have no care for any of them; they would all certainly be sacrificed to the false god that the Shaffu worshipped. Blood alone seemed to satiate his voracious appetite for terror. With all hope drained from within
him, Ifunka thought of only one thing: to kill Asharru should he come face-to-face with him and avenge his wife and friends. If they were already dead, he would take down as many of the Shaffu as he could before spilling his own blood in the dust. Death was a consolation if all other reason for living were taken away from him.
These black thoughts were interrupted by a loud, scratching sound, as if something metallic were being dragged along the stone floor. Within moments, a figure emerged around the corner of the chamber which he tenanted. He was large, bald and fearsome, his skin bright green, his eyes yellow, his mien and build terrifying and malicious. He wore only thick leather trousers, his torso adorned with rippling muscles and a brutal-seeming physique. Altogether, he appeared to be an embodiment of cruelty and was massive in size, with a grin indicative of sinister intent. In his right hand he carried a large wooden club and in his left a leather lash. As Ifunka looked on, terrified, the man whipped his lash and laughed heartily.
“Shakh-Sharru okh-ish (I am Shakh-Sharru)!” the man cried as he whipped the lash again. “I am your torturer!!!”
“What do you seek to achieve by torturing me?”
“For the pleasure of Asharru!” the man replied with a grin.
He raised the lash and whipped him, again and again, tearing at the monk’s flesh. Blood trickled down his breast and abdomen, forming pools near his feet. Ifunka cringed with each blow, his teeth clenched, his body taut, every punishing crack of the whip leaving piercing wounds on his chest. Then, setting aside his whip, he raised the club and approached him. He held it gleefully, patting it in his other hand, as Ifunka’s lashed and terrified body quivered against the frigid stone. Raising it high, he swung down to deliver punishing blows to Ifunka’s legs, arms and torso. Ifunka coughed and spat gobs of blood as his muscles and flesh were successively pulverized by Shakh-Sharru’s sadistic enthusiasm. After some minutes, which seemed to drag on for eternity, the torturer delivered a final blow to Ifunka’s stomach, causing him to violently vomit blood and bile before collapsing into a torpid state of half-consciousness. Shakh-Sharru chuckled, cast aside his blood-stained implements and left the battered, half-dead monk to breathe his last—or so he thought.
The Rise of Plant Man, Lord of War, Conquest and Revenge: Green Monk of Tremn, Part II (Coins of Amon-Ra Book 2) Page 11