“You were making us lose our heads!” said Aunt Gina in a convincing tone, understanding Viven’s intention. “We already said we are simple people, but you wouldn’t believe us!”
“Simple people don’t come to Tropagia,” said the short man, suspicion gleaming from his eyes.
“Yeah, Tonkeytus,” said Luidhor. “And the boy’s surname’s Bezon!”
“Bezon, eh?” said Tonkeytus; he gave Viven a penetrating look. He shook his head a handful of seconds later. “Let them go. You’re just being a nuisance to them, Luidhor—”
“Wh-what!” Luidhor seemed as if the latter had slapped him. “Let ’em go? Why in the world’s sake?”
“You and your Bheria monsters,” Tonkeytus snapped. “You are always being problematic to everyone.”
“B-but!”
“Oh, Luidhor, don’t be childish!”
This poked Luidhor’s ego.
“Who cares!” he said in a fury, and vanished before the next second dawned. So did his wolf animal.
“Pardon us, please,” Tonkeytus said to Viven’s group, and he and his men held each other’s hands. They too disappeared in the blink of an eyelid after Tonkeytus muttered a magical word.
Aunt Gina heaved a sigh of relief.
“I guess we can finally be on our way.”
***
Lying on the grass, he expected death to arrive and take him to the other world any moment. Then he dreamed of seeing a boy . . . no, it was a man, but his size was little. The man had the strangest possession: a tail. It dawned upon him death had arrived.
House of the Macacawks
“Man, this map’s tricky,” said Naden, one of Birul Gonai’s four men, staring aghast at the map he held. It had been directing them to go north until a minute ago and had suddenly changed for the southwest instead.
“Gonai, this is all shit!”
“Give it to me, dumb head,” said Birul, and snatched the map from Naden. He looked at it.
It was no longer asking them to travel southwest, but east. “Holy!”Birul gasped the next moment as all the contents disappeared altogether, leaving the map a total blank.
Furious, he tore it into half a dozen pieces, which he threw.
“Hey,” said Gensk, another of his men. “Why did you do that?”
“It’s useless. She fooled me!”Birul looked away.
“She?” said Naden, confused. “A woman? Whom are you talking about? Hey, hey, you know then who kept the gold below the tree?”
“Shut up,” Birul snapped. “And get the chest open, will you? I want to see the gold.”
Naden grimaced but dragged the chest to their midst. Producing a key, he unsuccessfully tried at the lock a couple of times. In the third attempt, it gave way. Birul’s heart beat quadrupled, fear stirring in his pit. He shouldn’t have accepted the witch’s deal at all; the map was already nuts. Still, all the hard work with Dirita and his family done, he didn’t want his pains to get wasted.
Naden opened the chest to reveal the glittering wealth and to etch relief onto Birul’s features.
It was rather remarkable to note how quickly expressions changed. Indeed, few things were faster. And, when tragic grief switched places with immense relief, well, expressions forwent their quality of speed—just as with Birul and his men. Even as the quantity of gold became ash, Birul, for a long while, remained gazing at it. His face bore relief still, though at a very slow rate, it was changing.
Birul fell onto his knees.
“Mai Canniola,” he muttered. “You cheated me.”
Stark horror was the only expression he now had.
***
“So people do live in Tropagia, don’t they?” Manu said as they trekked along the stream.
“They weren’t people, exactly,” said Dirita. Manu shot her a look, surprised that she was speaking. He quickly looked away.
“Well, erm, they can speak.”
“People or not,” said Viven, “Tropagia is inhabited.” He recalled his schoolbooks and thought how pointless it had been studying them. But if his grandfather had known about Luidhor and the tailed men, why didn’t he tell anyone about it?
“And we better get out of here as soon as possible,” said Aunt Gina.
Yes, that would be a good idea, thought Viven. He realised now that even glimpsing Meela occasionally had been a great privilege back in Tempstow compared to now.
“Yeah—” he began, but was cut short when he walked against Tonkeytus, the leader of the tribe of short men, when he suddenly appeared right in front of him.
“You!” he exclaimed. Behind, Dirita’s pet cat made a fearful sound. Less than a quarter of an hour had passed since they left the spot where they had been interrogated by Luidhor, the wizard. And here was Tonkeytus once more, who had asked them apology for the trouble from Luidhor.
“You were lying, then, weren’t you?” Tonkeytus asked him in curious words. Caught off guard, Viven spluttered an awkward, “How do you know?” betraying all the efforts he had made at concealment earlier at once.
“It’s child’s play for me to differentiate between a truth and a lie.” Although a small form, Tonkeytus cast quite a towering aura about himself.
Viven attempted at regaining himself, wishing he hadn’t been stupid.
“But why do you care who we are?”
“I don’t care who you are, only your relation with Algrad Bezon. You, boy, resemble him a lot, particularly your ears—which I doubt at being a mere coincidence.”
Viven knew his grandfather had an ear bigger than the other, just as himself. His father, who too had had the same peculiarity with his ears, had told him of the fact. It was a generic physical feature, he had said, that passed from father to son. Viven always betted, no matter how many greats you put before, his entire line of grandfathers had had the same ears.
Viven answered in an obvious manner.
“All right, I’m Algrad Bezon’s grandson, and here”—he gestured at Aunt Gina and Manu—“are his niece and her son; so now, what do you gain from it? And what would you lose if I’m not?”
“It’s nothing about gaining or losing,” Tonkeytus replied. “Are you sure you are Algrad’s grandson?”
Viven kept quiet. He kept looking at Tonkeytus. Either for good or for worse, he didn’t know. Manu picked up the talk so that Tonkeytus was made to turn at him instead.
“Yes,” Manu blared. “Algrad Bezon was his grandpa. You heard that?”
“You are not lying, are you?”
Manu grunted.
“All the time you ask us to tell the truth, and when we do so, you call it a lie?”
“All right,” Tonkeytus said, eyeing Manu and nodding. He produced a small black glass bottle from a pocket in his trousers.
“What’s that?” Viven said.
“Nothing . . .” Tonkeytus murmured, and took in a deep breath. He uncapped the bottle, releasing a sweet aroma.
“Hey, hey—DON'T!” An alarmed Aunt Gina tried to reach for the bottle in Tonkeytus’ hand—she never got it. She fell onto the ground, and before he realised it, Viven had fallen too. Strong dizziness was over him in wee seconds. Then all he knew about was slipping into the arms of a deep sleep . . .
***
It had been a long time since the Assurs and the Dwarfy Dwarfs had seen Canniola get into such a rage as this one. And they feared it most because every now and then, she kept unleashing her fury upon them, randomly shooting curses at anyone.
However, in reality, Mai Canniola’s external madness only reflected part of the internal tantrum inside her. She was doing her best to control herself; by murdering her own followers, she was merely causing harm to herself, and she knew that more too well than not.
But what had happened was not something that could be flung aside without worry. The Macacawks had got them, and neither the Purple One nor Milli, or herself, had been able to stop it, solely because of the risk of getting revealed. She wanted to direct all her powers into solving the pr
oblem, but a failed attempt would leave none but the last option: force. It would lead to the disclosure of the entire plot, not only to the Descendant but also to the Potion Makers and Macacawks and whatnot.
Canniola trusted the Purple One and Milli with everything for devising a way out, the former especially. He had been the greatest help ever bestowed on her. However, the main trouble was time; it was the last month of the Three Thousandth year. If they could not shake off the Macacawks well before the days ran out, she would be doomed to be monitored by Navarion for all eternity . . .
The day when Arakosh, the Purple One, came to her was fresh in her three minds’ eye. Initially she had taken him for a threat and had tried to destroy him, but then he had displayed his powers.
“I am extending you a hand in friendship,” the Purple One had said, sitting atop a dead Assur, countless more surrounding him. “And you are trying to cut it? Don’t you have any wisdom?”
Those words had been enough to make her see her fault.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Just to make myself and you more powerful.”
“How?”
And he had told her of the sword Navarion residing in the temple of Brene. It monitored the rise of evil powers and prevented them from rising beyond a certain limit. Near the end of every one thousand years, a misbalance occurred which made the sword vulnerable to destruction by other powerful objects. The end of the third millennium was just around the corner, according to Arakosh, and Canniola saw what he wanted of her.
“So you think I am evil?” she asked him testily.
“You consider yourself of other origins?” Arakosh said, the mockery in his tone gleaming. Yes, her origins were different. But choices mattered, and she had chosen the dark path. She had hated “herselves” for it, but with time, it had proven to be the right choice and the one she had come to love the most.
“Now, Canniola,” Arakosh continued, without bothering for an answer from her. “I have learnt that you possess the axe Acario.”
“How do you know that?” Canniola shot at Arakosh. She hadn’t even let the Potion Makers know that she had taken their dear axe from them. How, then, did this cat know that she had Acario?
“That’s unimportant,” said Arakosh. “Besides, you have already seen that I have some powers.” He swept his tail over the dead Assur’s chest. “What’s important is that Acario is powerful. It might be capable of destroying Navarion at least in the days just before the third millennium gets completed.”
“So you just want me to hand you the axe?” Canniola said.
“I wish it could have been as easy as that,” Arakosh said, “if only not for Algrad Bezon.”
“Algrad Bezon?” Canniola said, confused. “I killed him years ago. How do you know about him?”
“I know a lot, you see,” Arakosh said.
“But what has he got to do with destroying Navarion?”
“A lot. You see, only his eldest grandson can destroy the sword.”
And from that moment onward, they began to create the plot. It was simple enough, and Arakosh had sorted out most of it beforehand. But it still had gaping holes, and only a small turn of events were required to set it askew. And the foremost thing—they needed to hurry.
“There are objects, Canniola,” the Purple One had said at the end of countless hours of tinkering with ideas and plotting, “powerful objects that can destroy Navarion. But such objects are out of our reach. Our only bet is Acario, and once the millennium completes, we shall have no bet at all.”
And then, just as everything was going on as planned, the Macacawks had to intervene.
Presently the head Dwarfy Dwarf, who stood beside her throne, gulped audibly. She twitched her jaw muscles. The head flinched, shocked at his subconscious doing, and then remained resolutely still.
Mai Canniola clenched her fists into balls, fighting to be cool. No, he is too important . . . I mustn’t . . . I cannot . . .
The next minute saw the head Dwarfy Dwarf lying dead on the floor in a pool of blood. The witch had strangled him to limpness and shredded out his guts with her two-inch-long nails.
“NOOO!” Canniola’s shriek reverberated everywhere, shaking every single being in the castle. “NO! DO SOMETHING, ARAKOSH! DO SOMETHING!”
***
Viven moaned as he opened his eyes, feeling a soft bed underneath him. When the blur gave way, he saw a ceiling overhead, decorated with a large painting of a plant sapling.
He thought of rubbing away the remaining sleep, but he never actually did so. He thought again of the same thing, and once more, his hands did not move up to his eyes, remaining as they were. Viven frowned, wondering. Before soon, the frown faded and his brows climbed high on his forehead, his eyes widening. He realised he was unable of moving his arms, how hard he tried. In fact, he could not move any part of his body at all, his head being the one exception. His torso, his legs, arms, hands, and fingers were not responding to his mind’s will. He could feel their presence, that they were parts of his body, but his connection with them extended none further. From his shoulders onward to the tips of his toes, he could not move a single muscle.
The door of the room opened, and Tonkeytus came in, pushing a food trolley.
“So you are awake?” he said, and smiled a V-shaped smile. All Viven wanted to do at that moment was to sew Tonkeytus’ lips so he could never smile again.
“What have you done to me?” Viven yelled at him. “And where are the others?”
“Oh,” said Tonkeytus, still smiling. “Don't worry, it’s nothing. Your body will be all right in a couple of hours; it’s so at the time being because of the Paralyin gas you breathed. Your friends are in a different room and unconscious. I wanted to show you to somebody.”
“You kidnapped us,” Viven hissed, feeling helpless. “You-you bastard!” He rarely cursed people, and Viven thought his voice sounded weak and wavering.
“Well,” he said, taking it without offence, “I am not one, and this is no kidnapping; you’ll be freed once you talk with Grandcawk.”
“I’m talking with no one. Just release us!”
“Can’t do, not before the effects of the Paralyin gas wears off you. And, anyway, you’ll be only glad I brought you here—at least if you truly are Algrad Bezon’s grandson.”
“I am, so what?”
“Cool down, boy, cool down; you don’t look the killer kind, anyway. And, I repeat, you’ll be only glad I brought you here once you meet Grandcawk. Um, here is bread and tea; your upper body will be quite functional by half an hour, and you can have this then.”
It was at that moment that something struck Viven: Tonkeytus, standing next to the bed, might have as well been taller than him.
Though hatred was boiling hot inside Viven, he could not help but become puzzled at it. Hadn’t Tonkeytus been shorter than half a normal man the last time he had seen him?
“Um,” said Tonkeytus, “I’ve got work, so . . . well, I’ll come after sometime.”
Making to the door, he was about to open it when Viven, in between noisy breaths, said, “You got big. How?”
Much to his surprise, Tonkeytus chuckled.
“It’s strange, isn’t it, how one’s perspective may lend him such a reversed outlook on the reality? Wait for some time—there is more to it.”
He left the room, and Viven sank deeper into his sea of confusion. Reversed outlook on the reality? What did he mean by that? And what was more to it?
Nothing could have been more disheartening to Viven than lying on that soft bed, conscious of mind but exercising a dead man’s capability for movement.
Aunt Gina, Manu and Dirita, were they safe? He did not know if he should trust Tonkeytus. His character was too doubtful for that. He appeared friendly and had a kind face, but Viven could not understand why he had first helped them in getting away from Luidhor and then rounded upon them to make them unconscious and bring them to this place without consent.
Viv
en sighed, since that was all he could do at the moment. Two years ago, he had found a little poem written in a sheet of parchment while searching amongst his father’s belongings in their old house that he visited every three months for cleaning. The poem had been written in his father’s wide-spaced handwriting; it was the first time he knew that his father ever wrote poems, or maybe he had just copied it from some book. Who knew? Now Viven remembered that little poem. It was lyrical and had stuck in his head.
Nozeb Dargla once slipped and fell,
He saw stars and big did his head swell,
He stood up, and the world danced.
Insects and cats and humans all looked the same, and hence
Nozeb Dargla slipped and fell again.
A lady monkey said, “Get up, my man!
Viven couldn’t help but compare himself to Nozeb Dargla. He had basically slipped and fallen himself, and that blow from the soldier had pained for a long time in Nascat. The lady monkey was Tonkeytus, what with his tail and short height. Insects and cats . . . well, there was Manu’s mythical cat that had made Bablu fall and hurt himself. As for insects, Viven was sure the Tropagian forest was teeming with insects of all sizes.
Viven’s thoughts drifted to Meela. She smiled inside his head. He always pictured her smiling. That he would see her again in real life seemed impossible; maybe Viven, Manu, and Aunt could get out of Tropagia. In the unlikely event they got back to Tempstow, Viven would see her taking a stroll with her grandchildren, her face wrinkled but maintaining the beauty still.
He grimaced. All this was his grandfather’s fault. Why had he led that stupid ill-fated expedition to the forest? All Algrad had achieved was infamy throughout Belaria for the death of so many men. Viven was sure even his father had had no knowledge regarding his grandfather’s veiled relations with the mysteries of Tropagia. He didn’t think it was all sincere on the latter’s part in keeping mum toward his family, if not others.
The realisation of controlled movement of the upper body came after what qualified for an aeon. His legs had still to revive, but just the fact he could move his arms about brought his spirit back. And yes—
The Sword of Tropagia (The Advisor Trilogy Book 1) Page 5