I flew off and headed north to the Red Sea. Although I didn’t know how to reach Constantinople, I remembered the path I had taken.

First my father sent me to the Khazar Sea. And then, together we continued to what would become modern Iran. After that I flew over a large body of water which should be the Persian Gulf. We proceeded to cross a large desert which was definitely in the Arabian Peninsula, before we crossed another body of water to reach what I assumed was Ethiopia. As such if I wanted to reach Constantinople, I needed to head north back to the Red Sea, follow it to the Sinai Peninsula, before crossing it and reaching the Mediterranean. From there I only needed to hug the coast until I reached Constantinople.

But then again, I had one year to explore the world as I wish, shouldn’t I take a few detours to admire the flowers. Well, I should reach the Red Sea first.

#

Ethiopia, Mountain side city at the edge of the Ethiopian highlands

“Hold strong men!” screamed the commander of the army and the city’s defence. Aante slid his blade on the wall’s merlon. Guts cleaned off, he slashed at another feral horse’s jackal. The screams of both men and beasts echoed through the mountains. Cast under darkness and the screech of death they fought without rest.

“Aante, we can’t hold the eastern wall anymore,” yelled Hunde. He bashed his iron shield against a gelada which fell over the city wall. Yet it managed to grab onto a crack in between the wall’s stones.

Hunde’s long sword swung without regard to the stone and cut off the monkey’s fingers; a ring resounded, and the tip of his sword chipped off. At least the monkey wouldn’t be back; it fell. Yet the fingers, stuck in the wall slowly withered away and white worms crawled out. They either fell down into the rubble below or crawled into the wall from whence they squirmed into the city.

Aante took a step back, letting another soldier fill the gap. He turned his head in all directions, all walls were under assault; he stared into the sky. There thousands of birds hugged the sun. He looked down, a hundred thousand worms wriggled around. They sneaked into his shoes and crawled up his legs. “All sub-commanders order a retreat!”

In the distance Hunde answered with a “Yes Sir!” And similar yells came from the three other walls.

Aante turned his attention to his task. “Squad one, three, five, head for the inner walls.”

The members of the other squads momentarily turned their heads, eyes contorted, and souls wrung in hatred and despair. However, those amongst them with the most jealousy, and who kept their heads turned the longest felt the warmth of their own blood trickle down their necks, and jagged teeth on their spines. The others turned back and took content in the realization that the others would die soon enough.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Aante rushed down the stairs, hands running down the dark stairwell’s rough wall to know when to turn. However, something hit his legs and air enveloped the soles of his feet. Between his thighs the shadow of a headless man tumbled down the stairs. Yet he didn’t get the time to think of anything as the stairs cracked open his skull.

#

“Where is Aante?” asked Hunde to everyone he passed in the streets of the inner city. Half the men prepared the inner walls for the defence. The other half, the women, and children of the village brought all weapons and general supplies up the stairs to the walls' patrol path. That’s when he saw his brother’s sub commander. “Where is my brother?” He yelled an inch from the man’s face.

“He is with God,” answered the man with a downcast look.

Hunde’s eyes went blank. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He didn’t want to know how it happened. His hand touched his blade’s handle. Why did this have to happen on such a day? He ran to the palace. There, in the entryway nothing but crickets lived. He ran through hallways, and public rooms till he reached his. There, his father, mother, wife, a priest, and midwives were around his wife, baby in hand. “Leave, all of you leave!” he yelled.

The baby’s screams, already muttered by the cacophony of chaos outside was smothered into irrelevance.

Hunde’s neck twisted to the side and a sting spread across his cheek.

“What are you thinking?” said Arkani in the loudest quiet voice only achievable by mothers. Her squinted eyes held a great rage. “Your first child has just been born yet you cannot even greet her into this world."

Hunde collapsed to his knees and hugged his mother’s legs. Tears ran down his face. “But we will all die.”

His mother grabbed his hair; however, Hunde spoke before she could do anything.

“Aante is dead, Aante is dead. Everything is lost, the city, our happiness, and that of our people. Nothing but worms of wrath will be left. We are bound to the grave.”

The hand in his hair loosened, and a single tear fell on his forehead. “Greet your child, the rest is of no matter.”

His father brought the little girl wrapped in a blanket to him. “This is your child, our child, the city-state’s child, and God’s child. Let her not be forsaken.”

Hunde let go of his mother’s calves, wiped away old tears, and grabbed his daughter. He couldn’t say anything for half a minute. When his mind returned, he muttered, “You are beautiful, the light of mine, Biftu.”

A hand wrapped under his shoulder and pulled him up. Hunde turned around and there his father’s grey eyes stared into his soul.

“Now go Son. You have a daughter to raise.”

Hunde’s jaws were tired of screaming, yelling, and crying. He couldn’t speak, but his answer was certain. He shook his head, walked over to his wife and together they held their child. “I cannot leave. This is my home.”

“Leave,” said his wife. She pushed him away with the little strength she had left. “It is selfish to let our daughter die for your sense of responsibility.”

Hunde knew this. He looked down to his still crying child and kissed his wife. “I love you,” he said and ran off. A small contingent of armed men, and wet nurses followed close behind.

#

There, on a hill of rolling rocks, rust and orange water an old man sat atop a chair of wood and termites. A brown fire behind his head cast his wriggling hair in the most absurd of shadow. Each strand of keratin had a mind of its own. His previously brown skin, now an amalgamation of mucus and open wounds festered and decomposed under the sun ray’s heat. Little centipedes, millimetre long wasps, and spiders crawled out of his pores and wounds onto the soft grounds of trampled wheat.