The Sword of Tropagia
(Book #1 of the Advisor Trilogy)
Previously published as “The Staff”
By
A. J. Chaudhury
Copyright © 2016 A. J. Chaudhury
All rights reserved
Special thanks to Courtney Umphress for help with the copyediting.
About the author: I am a young author hailing from Assam, India. Writing has been the only constant in my life and I hope to make it big one day. You can visit my blog http://ajchaudhury.wordpress.com/ where I often interview indie authors.
Available Books in The Advisor Trilogy
Book 1: The Sword of Tropagia
Book 1. 5: The Felis Catus
The Drabird (a prequel)
Book 2: Coming spring 2017
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Prologue
Algrad had found the dead cockroach stuck between some big rocks on the riverbank. The most peculiar insect he had ever seen. More than half a metre in its breadth alone, its length surpassed two metres and filled quite a big chunk of his table.
A new species, what should he name it? He wondered for some time. What could be an appropriate name for the giant cockroach?
“Ummm . . . ah, Bezorium!” he decided finally, after his surname “Bezon.” Yes, that would be good, he thought. “Bezorium, the largest cockroach ever!”
Coming to Tropagia hadn’t been all a waste. He had discovered innumerable numbers of new plant and animal species. More than half of them he had named after His Majesty, a quantity after himself, many after family members, and a good deal still after his more efficient of men. But he considered his greatest achievement of all as succeeding to pierce the countless superstitions people held concerning Tropagia. The talks of such and such supernatural beings dwelling in the forest would go now.
Yes, there were beings in the Tropagian forest. None the nonsensical kind of people had nightmares of, but rather exotic ones, such as the cockroach that lay in front of him.
However, Algrad’s success had a downside as well—the expedition could not reach the sea on the northern shore of Belaria as the plans had been. Also, an estimate of the area over which Tropagia was spread could not be taken. This was because Algrad had collected too many specimens of the flora and fauna already to keep on continuing. In two days’ time, they were scheduled to begin their return journey to the capital.
Still, as far as his calculations went, the expedition party had penetrated around sixty-three to sixty-five kilometres into Tropagia. It did not include the various turns of the river Gordan, which they had been utilising both as a water source and as a guide into the forest since the start.
“Sir, sir!” said a rather frantic Ashmil, one of Algrad’s men, rushing into the tent. Ashmil was a lean lad, just a few years past his boyhood. Algrad had only ever known him as a person who lost his calm whenever the tiniest problem presented itself. Maybe it was his inexperience, or maybe it was Algrad’s fault for bringing him along. There were younger lads in the party than Ashmil, none of whom fretted as much as him.
“What?” said Algrad with a small grimace, never having really liked the lad a lot. He didn’t enjoy this sudden invasion of privacy. Ashmil should know better than to enter a senior’s tent without asking permission first.
“I-I think you should come see this, sir!”
He was surprised when Ashmil caught him by the arm and pulled him out of the tent.
“See this, sir!”
Ashmil pointed at the opposite bank on the other side of the river. Looking at the place, the ground might have disappeared from beneath Algrad’s feet.
“The gods protect us,” he muttered.
There were about a dozen of them, halfmen, halfbugs. It was a paralysing sight. Men till their waists, they were bugs from below, having six hairy stick-like legs. They were looking at the expedition party, observant, just as the men were looking at them, fear-stricken. One thing was set clear. The devil’s children dwelt within Tropagia.
Algrad shook his head in disbelief, appalled at the scene before him. He had been wrong in his perception of Tropagia. The superstitions of the people had been true.
“The men are ready, sir,” said Ashmil. “Should we open fire?” And ready they were: all of Algrad’s men had armed themselves with rifles, muskets, and pistols. But Algrad declined.
“No, it’s too risky; we’d be foolish to fire without knowing what strengths they possess.”
“But what should we do, then—?”
Out of the blue, a lone gunshot cracked the air, shattering the suspense. Someone, fear overtaken, had fired.
The bullet hit the thick armour of a mutant and bounced off like a pebble. It was enough to unleash the mutants into action. And with a thundering roar, they charged; the shallow river in between little of an obstacle for them.
Before he knew it, Algrad was running away from the riverbank toward the lush density of plants just as everybody else was yelling a single word—“Flee!”
As they fled, some of Algrad’s men fired aimless shots at the mutants. This, however, was no hindrance, and by the time a handful of seconds had passed, the mutants reached their side of the river.
Algrad ran madly, uncaring of the direction as long as it took him away from the halfmen, halfbugs amidst the thickness of vegetation. He could hear pained screams of his men from behind—the mutants had gotten them. Poor fellows, he thought, but what could he do besides try to somehow save his own skin? So Algrad kept running.
After sometime of the adrenaline-filled run, Algrad slowed down his pace and looked behind— only plants. He ran some more, farther the better.
Algrad came to a stop and crouched behind a tree, gasping for breath, heart drumming and body hot. After inhaling furiously for two minutes, his body cooled down and his breath returned.
Algrad considered his surroundings more sensibly.
Where was he?
He had definitely come a long way away from the riverbank, for the cries and howls of his men and the mutants had faded into an undisturbed quiet.
Now trees, bushes, and other plants surrounded him on all sides, as though caging him. He felt claustrophobic, despite all his love for nature.
More moments throbbed by, and fear returned to Algrad as stark realisation overtook him. He could not get to the river, his only chance of any survival at all.
He might have escaped the demons, temporarily most, perhaps, but now Algrad Bezon was lost in the Tropagian forest.
***
The Stocker
“You have no guts,” said Manu as Meela’s house came into view behind the tree beside the road.
“Come on, Manu,” said Viven. Today, on their way to Dolby Doof’s house to get a Goigpaise recipe book, Viven had planned not to even spare a glance toward Meela’s house. Manu had caught him looking at Meela’s house several times while they passed it in the past. Once or twice, Manu had even caught him staring at Meela herself.
“Couldn’t you just tell her?” Manu persisted. “Believe me, that ear doesn’t make you look ugly.”
“Get over it, Manu,” Viven said. He knew how it would turn out ultimately, just as it had with all the other girls Viven had . . . liked in the past. He would keep staring at them while someone else made them theirs. His right ear was much bigger than his left, and that only raised the odds against him.
But then, maybe this time he might get lucky. Meela was a year junior to him in school, and he actually could make some reason to talk to
her every week. The summer break had, however, made it almost impossible to even see her, and Viven hadn’t glimpsed her even once in the last ten days. Those black eyes of her, boy!
Then Viven’s eyes fell on the boulder not far from Meela’s home, and her face fled from his mind. Viven’s father had died just beside the boulder. Viven recalled that fate-less day when he had been playing in the road with his friends. Upon nearing Meela’s house, he had seen the many people gathered around the boulder. Some of the people had seen him and pointed his way, and Viven had run to the spot to find his father on the ground, blood oozing from his head. A broken carriage lay not far away, and what had happened was clear. The driver had fled and the horses stood beside the carriage, looking shocked from the incident. One of them had a red wound on its neck.
“Father! No!” Viven had said, kneeling on the ground beside the man.
His father tried to smile at him.
“I . . . see . . . your mother,” he croaked. He died minutes later, leaving Viven an orphan.
“Mum didn’t really tell us why she needed the book, did she?” Manu said presently. “I mean, there’s got to be some occasion, right? Why else would she want to prepare Goigpaise?”
“Well, I heard her mumble something about an old friend or something,” Viven replied. Manu’s mother was the cousin of Viven’s father. Her own husband died shortly after Manu’s birth. She had taken the responsibility of raising Viven. Viven had been living with her for five years now, since he had been ten cycles old.
“I guess we should send her to the bazaar more often instead of going ourselves,” Manu said. “Maybe she’ll meet more ‘old friends’ and want to prepare Goigpaise . . .”
“Aren’t you afraid we can be stuck with Doof for hours today?” Viven said.
“Hell, don’t say that. I wouldn’t have come along had it been any other dish but Goigpaise. We must make an escape from Doof’s house the moment the book’s in our hands.” Today was one of those rare occasions when Manu had accompanied Viven to Doof’s house. Mr. Dolby Doof was the most boring person living. He had a whole house stuffed with books, books, and books—all recipe books at that, too. No sign of fiction or poetry or anything else. Mr. Doof lent his books for free to anyone who wanted to try out a new dish, and that, he considered, was his way of contributing to their society.
And with him giving lectures on almost every book he owned, Viven’s earlier visits had been deathly dull. He remembered being thankful he hadn’t fallen unconscious out of excessive boredom.
Reaching the Recipe Book House, they knocked and were welcomed in by the wide-smiling Mr. Doof.
“Um, Mr. Doof,” said Viven, wanting to hit the point directly. “Um, do you have any book on how to prepare Goigpaise?”
The big-bellied Mr. Doof frowned at the word, and then smiled at his own forgetfulness.
“Ah, Goigpaise, how can I forget that dish!” He looked at them approvingly. “It’s one of the finest delicacies! Well, do take a seat while I go bring just the book for you.”
They sat, and Mr. Doof, humming an awkward tune, walked to the next room. Manu looked at Viven, drumming on his chair’s handles with his fingers.
“The moment the book’s in our hands,” he said in a hushed voice, “we’re gonna make a run from here.”
Viven nodded. Make a run, he thought; he was sceptical it was possible in a dream.
Mr. Doof returned in a short while, clutching a fat little book titled Goigpaise? Here it is! that featured a tiny man on the cover swimming in a bowl of Goigpaise.
“As I said, just the book for you; it tells everything about Goigpaise, How to prepare it, its history, additional information, etcetera, et cetera . . . Here.” He made a bow and handed Viven the book.
“By the way, how many times have you tasted Goigpaise before?”
“Just a couple of times,” Viven replied.
“And you?” Mr. Doof had no intention of sparing Manu, who flinched as though accused of a crime he hadn’t committed.
Then he answered in a small voice, “Yes, a few times.”
“What sort of visions did you behold?”
“Er, I-I don’t remember . . .”Manu said, turning a shade of pink. Mr. Doof’s eyes bulged like he hadn’t heard a funnier joke.
“What?”He laughed. “No one ever forgets a Goigpaise vision!”
Manu might as well have received a slap.
“No-no, really, I cannot remember them properly,” he said in a feeble attempt to explain; it couldn’t have been clearer, though, that whether he remembered any Goigpaise vision or not, he simply wished to keep the conversation the shortest possible with Mr. Doof.
“Okay,” said Mr. Doof, “if you don’t want to share your joyful experiences with a poor old man like me, so be it.” He stretched his lips in a weak smile, and Viven could almost sense all Manu wanted to do was disappear. All the same, Viven did not think Mr. Dolby Doof was any poor old man he claimed to be. He did have a few streaks of grey hair here and there amongst his balding circle of jet black. But with a face that yet had to shed the youthful glow, he couldn’t have been anymore than around forty-five years of age.
Viven spoke up before Manu had to suffer more interrogations.
“Um, Mr. Doof . . . Well then, I think we should leave now.” As Viven and Manu got up to go, someone began rapping hard at the door.
“Master, I am home!” a voice yelled from outside.
Manu opted to open the door.
“No! Don't open!” yelled a frantic Mr. Doof. “No!”
Too late; Manu opened the door, already giving Mr. Doof a confused look.
Viven gaped in raw bewilderment as he saw the man at the threshold. Standing with the identical bulging stomach and funny rounded face was the replica of Mr. Dolby Doof!
“But-but!”Manu stuttered, looking from one to the other. “Two Dolby Doofs!”
Viven gaped at the Mr. Doof inside, brows raised.
“Who is he?”
Mr. Doof went and roughly pulled his look-alike inside, who grinned widely, not minding.
“He is, err, my-my twin brother. He, er, lives in Lofusgrad,” he explained to the boys rather desperately. “He looks like me a lot, doesn’t he?”
Viven eyed Manu, who shrugged giving him a tragic I-think-we-should-make-a-run look.
“Well,” said Viven, heeding Manu, “so long, then, Mr Doof. We’ve got work at home. I think we should be on our way.”
Then, uncaring for any response from Mr. Doof, the boys sprinted out of the house.
“That geek has a twin brother?” said Manu once they were on the road. “And he’s come to live here?”
“Maybe, though I’ve never heard that before,” said Viven. He could not recall any earlier incident when Mr. Doof had mentioned his twin before—something he shouldn’t have failed at with his big-mouthed nature. And why would his twin call him master?
Manu stopped in his tracks and caught Viven’s arm.
“What?” Viven asked. Manu’s face had become parchment white.
“There, the hat is a pointed one,” he said, pointing down the road. Looking, Viven felt cramps in his stomach.
A person with a great moustache that reached down to his waist in tendrils, and wearing brown rags all together with a high pointed hat, was coming toward them, staggering unsteadily.
A Future Stocker.
“What are we gonna do now?” Manu said, panicking.
“Dunno,” said Viven. “Best thing would be to ignore him totally.”
“We cannot ignore him,” said Manu. “Stockers smell too bad! I don’t want to go near him.”
“We’d have to. He is coming our way.”
“Let’s take the other road,” said Manu.
“The other road? We’d take an hour to reach home! Come on, Manu, don’t be a git!”
Viven nudged Manu’s arm. Manu looked at him with grave eyes.
“All right,” he said with a grimace.
As they appr
oached the Future Stocker, a bad smell wafted to them from him, intense like that from animal droppings, except many times stronger, making them cover their noses.
The Stocker, in his coarse, broken voice, was singing himself a song (one that would win any Ugly Melody contests in the winter celebrations), when suddenly, he stopped.
“Viven,” he said.
Wait. Viven? No, not possible, Viven thought. The Future Stocker certainly hadn’t spoken his name! His heart sank.
“Quick,” he whispered to Manu, and as they hastened, the voice came again.
“Viven . . .” A chilling sensation crept down Viven’s spine, clouds blocking the one last tiny ray of hope he had. It wasn’t considered good when a Future Stocker knew your name. Viven swallowed.
The Stocker scrambled, and the next moment, Viven found himself separated from Manu. The Stocker’s dirty brown eyes drilled into his own while his bony but powerful hands held him tightly by the collar.
He almost couldn’t breathe, the Stocker stank so horrid. Nausea overwhelming, Viven fought to get loose from the Stocker.
“Let go! Let go!” he yelled as the Stocker grabbed his arms, restraining them from movement. The Stocker, though fragile-appearing, was extremely strong.
Viven tried to kick him away, but it was no use, his drastic attempts a mere itch to the Stocker, who kept whispering “Viven! Viven!” in an eerie tone, like he would forget the name if he didn’t.
“Let him go, you—!” Manu boxed the Stocker: a mistake.
The Stocker glared at him. Grasping Manu’s clothes with one hand while controlling Viven with the other, he hurled him away.
Manu landed on the ground, fortunately escaping injuries.
Rolling his eyes back at Viven, the Stocker once again repeated, “Viven. . .” Then, most unexpectedly, he released Viven and burst into a bout of hysterical sobbing. Viven seized his chance to scram away as the man sank into a ball and wailed pathetically.
***
Aunt Gina was aghast when, after reaching home, they told her about their misadventure.
“But they have no right to go about frightening people like that! Even King Agarz has forbidden them from going near normal people!”
The Sword of Tropagia (The Advisor Trilogy Book 1) Page 1