by Jeffrey Hall
The Crumbling Kingdom
Book 1 of the Jungle-Diver Duology
Jeffrey Hall
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living person alive or dead. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.
Copyright © 10/31/2018 by Jeffrey Hall
Created with Vellum
To Eric – Thanks for never finishing your stories… and for the inspiration.
Contents
The Crumbling Kingdom
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
What’s Next
A Glimpse at The Mountain of Blood and Bone:
Also by Jeffrey Hall
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Crumbling Kingdom
Book 1 of the Jungle-Diver Duology
By Jeffrey Hall
Chapter 1
Wish peered into the trogi’s nest, and the black hole in the ground stared back him, a trap yet sprung. A mouth yet full. The cracked and discarded blue casings of eaten agi nuts lay strewn across its exterior like the sky had fractured and dribbled its boney debris along the jungle’s floor. Even from his height in the ruins Wish could smell the sharp, citrus tang of the oil that coated the beast’s scales emanating from the darkness. That stench, mixed in with the wet leaves and damp soil that surrounded him, the chocolate odor of the flatback mushrooms that grew in clumps at the base of stone he stood upon, and the faint stench of fire given off from the bark of the runny treesat his back calmed his nerves.
It smelled like relief. It smelled like home.
The sound of fingers snapping from the other side of the hole grabbed his attention. Moso sat perched atop a vine-ridden hut, one of the few structures that still stood upright from the Booli civilization. His long, skinny tail frantically signed the questions his severed tongue could not.
What are you waiting for? The Chassa’s tail circled twice, bent, and then twisted. To see if it’s hungry? Throw.
Wish nodded, realizing he had been lost in his own thoughts. He reached into one of the pouches that hung from his belt and produced a handful of agi nuts they had picked while tracking the beast.The nuts still held their squishy exterior and rich blue color. They were still fresh.
He nodded to Moso.
The monkey unsheathed one of the twoscarwood daggers that hung from his hip, its polished crimson blade glimmering like spilled nectar that had been gathered and shaped, an offensive color against his green-dyed fur.
Just do it.
Wish threw the first nut into the hole. The darkness consumed it, only spitting back the barely audible knock of it as it crashed against the hole’s innards. Wish waited for a response.
Nothing.
Throw again. Moso’s tail flickered impatiently.
Wish threw. This time the nut hit the hole’s edge and bounced out.
Good throw, said Moso.
Wish showed his five fingers. Fuck off.
He threw again. The nut fell into the hole, but still nothing.
Hoatzin of a human, Moso’s tail cursed him while his mouth hissed. Before Wish could throw another nut, the Chassa descended the stone and stood before the hole.
Wish clicked his tongue, trying to get the monkey’s attention, but when he wouldn’t turn, he whispered, “What are you doing?”
Speeding things up.
“Don’t be a fool—”
Moso slapped his dagger against the side of the nest, whistling. Wish barely unsheathed his machete before the hole finally responded.
A groan rumbled out from the darkness, as if the shadows were prying their way free from the black that held them. Moso pressed his back against the side of the hole just as the trogi stormed out of its nest.
The great lizard skidded to a stop between the stones, its many clawed feet tossing forest debris in the air as if it were trying to shred the world in order to confront the intruder. The little light of the great fire that penetrated the jungle’s canopy gleamed off its scales, the oils that coated them showing red, then orange, then yellow, a thousand flames dying and rising over and over again. It swung its head. Its two sets of eyes, the one that saw like normal creatures, the other that could readsmells like strange patterns in the air, swept across the ruins and landed on Moso.
Get the eggs! Moso managed to say before the trogi lunged at him. Moso sprung to a nearby wall and the lizard snapped only air.
“Smook,” cursed Wish as he jumped down from the stone. With the trogi distracted by Moso, he hurried across the small patch of forest floor, his boots falling as soft as rain.Seconds later he stood in front of the creature’s nest.
Its odor was so strong that his eyes watered, but he plunged into it, ignoring the stench, the grumbles of the trogi at his back, and the muted mewls of Moso urging him onward. The darkness consumed him. The hole was so wide that he could have fit three of himself side by side and still have wiggled through it, but the suffocating heat and thick darkness of it made it feel claustrophobic. The little light that penetrated the hole offered only a glimpse of the clutter the creature had made its home from.
Bramble. Stone. Bones. Fronds. An assembly of the ruins and forest that surrounded it like some strange collection built to memorialize all of the trogi’s journeys throughout the jungle. It made finding its eggs painful as all manner of things jabbed into Wish’s arms and legs as he crawled.
The bite of the jungle, he thought amidst his mad dash through the nest. It never stops gnawing no matter where you go.
At last he saw them, a cluster of brilliant orange eggs whose shells glowed despite the darkness that encompassed them.He gathered three of the eggs, not one more than needed, and put them into one of the empty pouches that hung from his hip, still amazed at how hot the things felt as they hung against his side even after collecting so many for so many different employers over the years.
He closed the cinch to his pouch tight just as he heard the trogi’s roar echo down the hole. He turned to aid Moso, but stopped just before he did.
Perhaps it was the glow of the eggs, or perhaps it was the way the tiniest bit of the great fire found its way even this far beneath the soil, but he could just make out an odd shape amidst the piles of debris that made the nest.
It was square like some of the stones the trogi had rolled inside the hole, but unlike the stones its edges were perfect and sharp. It wasn’t made of some hewed piece of mountain, but rather wood. Carvings ran over its surface, the serrations and indentations that had been put into its top visible thanks to the glow of the other eggs. There was something else close to one of its edges. A small ridge built into its side, as if a beak had been shaped into the wood. Was it a totem?
Wish squinted, and his heart quickened.
It wasn’t some totemic carving of a beak, it was a lock. The block of wood was a box.
He grabbed the box, unsure why. Perhaps it was the peculiarity of the object that struck his interest, or perhaps it was his intuition, a feeling built over countless years in the jungle that if something caught his attention amidst the constant disorder, it was probably worth investigating.
Tucking it under his arm, he scrambled out of the hole, thankful to be reunited with the open air o
f the jungle, as humid and thankless as it was.
His appreciation was short lived.
Only feet away the trogi bucked and spun as if it were a forest dog trying to chase its own tail. Moso hung from its back, his dagger the only thing keeping him from being thrown off the creature.
It had been lodged into the trogi’s neck, and he held onto it like some type of strange rein for an exotic mount.
“Smook masa!” shouted Wish at his partner, but it was the trogi who responded.
The lizard turned, and all four of its eyes fell upon him.
Wish threw the box to the side, and with no time to take out the short spear that hung from his back, he brought up his machete.
The trogi roared, and rows of its sharp red teeth were unsheathed behind its lips as if a thousand strange petals had bloomed inside the creature. It charged, and as it did Wish couldn’t help but notice Moso’s tail flicking an order to move as hemewled his barely audible call.
Wish’s heart pounded. He was aware of how sweaty his hands felt as he raised his machete. Old fears rose in him, that small voice inside his head that still remained from his childhood that used to whisper to him and tell him of all the horrors that awaited him in the jungle, a voice that had slowly been quieted over the many long years he’d spent in the forest. But as he met the eyes of the trogi with his own, the thought that replaced his fears was an apology.
I’m sorry.
The creature lunged and snapped. Wish stepped back. Its teeth closed only inches away from him. Wish slashed down. The baboon totem that had been etched into the flat part of the blackwood blade flared, turning as orange as the trogi’s eggs. The machete cut straight through the creature’s snout, severing its clenched jaws just below its eyes as if he had chopped into a piece of fruit.
Moso jumped as the trogi slid into a nearby stone, where it continued to fight against the inevitable, its new mouth a bloody abyss in the rest of its brilliant, beautiful scales. Moso scampered to Wish’s side. Together they watched the creature’s throes diminish into small spasms of life before all it could do was breathe as it pumped out blood onto the forest floor. Until finally no part of it moved.
Wish and Moso breathed heavily beside one another, silent, watching to see if the creature would find one last line of life to climb back into a state of attack. Only the cackle of a nearby wallyfoot snapped them from their stupor.
Did you get the eggs? said Moso as he scampered forward to retrieve his dagger from the trogi’s neck.
“Why did you provoke it?” Wish watched as the blood fled the creature, the sanguine liquid crawling across the jungle floor like a new creature altogether trying to consume him.
It wasn’t going to come out for your nuts. We didn’t have time to wait. Moso removed his dagger and inspected it for scarring.
“Boz said end of the week. We could have waited days,” said Wish, sheathing his machete now that it had cooled.
I don’t have days. Moso’s tail said the words as he began to pluck out the trogi’s scales and put them into one of his pouches. They were worth a half moon per pound in the market, Wish knew, but that’s not why they had come here.And Wish had spent enough time in the jungle to know that if you took more than what was needed, the jungle would come looking for you. Moso knew that too, but he often forgot things when it came to lunars.
“How much do you owe them?” said Wish.
Moso stopped. His tail stood stiff, motionless. He kept on plucking out the dead trogi’s scales.
“Well?” said Wish, impatient.
I am close to paying it back,Moso finally said.
“Your debts are going to be the end of you. By the gods, they’ll be the end of me. We didn’t need to fight this creature. It could have gone about its life, making more eggs for us to occasionally take down the road. I—”
A fight is good for you. Shakes off the cold from your blood. Something you desperately need. He glanced over his shoulder. Did you get the eggs? Or are you going to make me crawl through that shit this thing called a nest and get them?
Wish sighed. “I got the eggs.” He felt them against his hip. Still whole. Still hot.
How many?
“As many as was asked of us.”
Moso peered into the trogi’s nest.
“Don’t take anymore than necessary,” ordered Wish.
The principle of any good jungle-diver, I know. Moso smiled, revealing his fangs, those that were still there and the missing spaces from those that were long gone from a hard life of making a living by way of the jungle, and before that, the streets. What’s with the box then?
Wish had almost forgotten about it in their fight against the trogi. It lay tipped against a nearby tree, its bottom clearer now beneath the partial light of midday. Vines had been carved into the dark wood it was made of, a beautiful pattern of plants curving under and over one another forming links like chains that seemed to have no end.At the center of its bottom there were four sentences written in a language he could not read.
He went and knelt over the box. “This doesn’t belong to the jungle.”
So sure about that?
Yes, he answered in his head, even as the box’s carvings told him otherwise, showcasing its owner in a thousand minute replicas of the same crisscrossing vines that dominated the canopy above. But the words on it, they made it civilization’s.
What’s in it? said Moso.
Wish turned it over and found the latch that held it closed to be loose and easily unlocked. He carefully opened the box. Inside was a piece of parchment lying on purple cloth. The parchment looked old, worn, as if he touched it the paper would crumble to pieces in his hands.On it there were more words, these ones in a different language than even the ones carved into the box’s bottom. He had never seen such elegant lettering. It almost looked as though the words connected—like vines.
“It’s some type of note,” said Wish.
Moso peered over his shoulder. Wish looked back to see the Chassa sign, People don’t buy notes.
“Collectors of the past do. Perhaps an anthropologist will find it useful.”
Have fun collecting crescents, answered Moso. He stood over the trogi’s carcass. The thing looked picked over, as if a pack of scavengers had chewed it up and spat it back out. My bags are full, should we go?
Wish turned back to the direction they had come. North. Back to Fangmora and all that awaited him there. He felt his heart quicken, a pace faster than when he had faced the trogi only moments ago. A part of him wondered, as he often did when he left the city, what would happen if he decided to stay in the jungle and just keep walking.
Well? said Moso.
He tucked the box under his arm, swallowed, and nodded. Together the two made their way back through the jungle, back through the place where barely any man went, back to where the walls and buildings and people constricted tighter than any snake that called the vast forest home.
Back to the city. Back to civilization.
Chapter 2
Fangmora rose beneath the shadow of the Knotted Mountains like a dying flower too devoid of light to grow, too strangled by the surrounding jungle to continue living. The wall that surrounded the city looked shriveled and decayed by the hundreds of vines that covered it and the way its stone had begun to crumble by the ages of attacks from the weather, Fanglara’s enemies, and the countless creatures of the jungle. Its buildings rose into the air like crumpled petals, disfigured by the cracks that ran through their sides or the stones that had fallen from them over time, their once colorful paints now cracking and peeled, leaving the boisterous hues of the city looking dulled and forgotten.
With such a tired, worn look it was no wonder its citizens had started to call it the Crumbling Kingdom.
The only thing that saved it from looking entirely like a ruin was the city’s center.The temple of Notha stood above the rest of the buildings beautifully maintained. There was not a singleovergrown or discolored vine growing from the garde
ns that had been built upon the temple’s shoulders, head, and the back of its feet, vegetation maintained and cultivated to look like long, green fur.Only the flowers that grew along them interrupted the brilliant flow of the vines, glaring like rainbow beads threaded into hair.
A giant memorial to Notha, the Gibbon who had given her life in order to warn the city when the Crone, the greatest of all the Knotted Mountains, shed its stones and attempted to crush the civilization that blossomed at its feet. King Rasha lived there, and that was the only explanation any of the city’s citizens needed to know to understand why it was the only place in all of Fangmora that seemed to be well-kept and beautiful.
The temple caught Wish’s eyes first, as it always did, as he and Mosoentered the city through one of the many foot trails leading in and out of the jungle. The menacing size of the great temple always reminded him of the way the jungle once made him feel when he was younger: small. Unworthy. Weak. As if it were constantly sizing him up, threatening him, ready to strike him for coming too close. It was a feeling he had eventually conquered when he was forced to enter the jungle thanks to his father’s injuries those many years ago, but one he still held onto everytime he faced the temple.
He supposed the rest of the city made him feel that way too.
Moso came to Wish’s side. He could feel the Chassa’s eyes on him.
Come on, said Moso. Our meeting with Boz will be quick, and then you can hurry up and come back.
Wish followed the monkey down the path, his gaze not leaving the city as he did, as if he were afraid of what it might do to him if he looked away.