Atlantis Rising (22 page)

“Yes. Narkazan will not expect an attack by just one person. Why, that’s even more unlikely than the notion that the person from the Prophecy would turn out to be a young man from Earth instead of an immortal! He would never guess both of those are true.”

A short while ago,
thought Promi,
neither would I.

Just then a veil of mist lifted, revealing a grand castle in the clouds. It was the most spectacular structure he’d ever seen—immense, imposing, and terrible all at once. Promi shivered as he looked at Arcna Ruel, the cloud palace of the warlord.

The Cloud Palace

I wish I could have been right there with you, Promi! But maybe, in a way that would have surprised us both, I was.

—From her journal

T
heosor swerved, gliding behind a huge spiral of mist to ensure they would not be seen by any of Narkazan’s warriors. There he hovered, his invisible wings vibrating in the vapors. Through a thin opening, Theosor, Promi, and Kermi peered at the cloud palace floating just across the valley. Darker than a thundercloud, it seemed to glower back at them.

“It’s enormous,” said Promi, astonished. “What in the world—the spirit world, I mean—is it made of?”

“Vaporstone,” the wind lion replied. “A supercondensed cloud with the strength of stone and the lightness of mist. It takes no small amount of magic to produce, especially in the quantity needed to build such a fortress. But that was Narkazan’s goal—to show off his power.”

“He succeeded.” The young man stared at the imposing face of the palace. Six gigantic turrets towered over the battlements, while a great dome rose from the center. A massive gate attached to an encircling wall was patrolled by dozens of floating shadows.
Mistwraiths,
he realized.
And there are more inside, I’m sure.

“Right, young cub.” The great lionsteed bobbed his head. “They are to our world what the plague is to yours. They consume life and devour any magic they meet.”

Promi frowned, watching the shadowy forms slide through the air like clouds of death. “What else is in there?”

“Hundreds more warriors. Some are in human form, others take more ghastly shapes—wrathful ogres and jagged-winged birds, faceless ghouls and poisonous serpents. And some may even stay invisible all the time.”

“At least,” Promi said with a glance at the small blue creature on his shoulder, “there aren’t any kermuncles.”

To his surprise, he heard what could only be a chuckle from Kermi. “Count your blessings, manfool.”

The spiral of mist started to shift, transforming into a huge, luminous tree. On every branch, glowing fruit sprouted in bunches, like huge grapes made from both light and vapor. Its great knobby roots stretched outward, clasping the cloudlike terrain.

To stay hidden, Theosor slid over to a rippling curtain of rising mist. Once again, he hovered so Promi could take a closer look. After several seconds, the young man finally spoke—and his tone was decidedly grim.

“No windows, Theosor. No windows at all! How am I supposed to get in there—through that gate?”

“Look again, my impatient cub. At the turrets.”

Promi studied the tall structures, from their domed roofs down to where they joined the wall. All were solid vaporstone, without a hint of an opening. Suddenly, at the very top of one, he saw a tiny dot of darkness. Just a shadow on the turret? Or a darker patch of stone?

He leaned forward, peering closely, his hands resting on the mighty lion’s shoulders. He caught his breath. It was, indeed, a window!

“The only one,” announced Theosor. “It leads, I would guess, to Narkazan’s private chamber. In his arrogance, he allowed himself the only view from inside the palace.”

“And created,” said Promi, “the palace’s only weakness.”

“Yes.” The wind lion pawed the air vigorously, as if striking something harder than mist. “But remember this. Getting in will be much easier than getting out alive.”

Promi nodded. “Let’s go.”

Theosor reared back and sprang upward, placing them behind a wavering cloud that was blowing toward the palace. Promi held his breath as they glided closer and closer. Soon, beneath them, he spied the outer wall. The heavily guarded gate. A turret, then another . . . but not the right one.

There! Below them rose the turret, jabbing at the clouds like an enormous spear.

Instantly, the wind lion dived out of the sky. He swooped toward the turret while Promi lifted himself to a crouch on his back. Like a sudden gust of wind, Theosor sailed past the window, slowing just enough for his rider to . . .

Leap! Promi dived into the air and plunged through the window.

The Glow

Normally, I see better without my eyes. What is most important lies beneath the surface.

—From her journal

C
overed with mud from the curls of her hair to the tips of her toes, Atlanta tramped through the swamp. Thanks to the river god’s gift, she could breathe with ease, even in the rancid plumes of vapors. But her legs felt heavier with every step, and she sometimes stumbled on broken branches or tufts of bog grass.

Why am I feeling so weak?
she wondered, clambering around the edge of a quicksand pit.
Now that I can breathe so easily, I should feel stronger.

In the pocket of her gown, the faery rustled his wings vigorously. Though Atlanta barely noticed the trembling against her skin, she could sense that he was trying to communicate with her.

Gently, she pried open the pocket and peered inside. The faery gazed back at her, his tiny eyes gleaming. Without doubt, his wings looked stronger and more luminous than before. Yet this didn’t seem to give him any comfort. Instead, the overwhelming feeling he was conveying was fear—not for himself, but for her.

“I’ll be careful, little friend,” she whispered. “Really, I will.”

The vehement shaking of his antennae said clearly that he didn’t believe a word of it.

Stepping over a rock, she stubbed her toe—and almost fell into a pit whose banks vibrated with snakes. She grabbed the branch of a dead tree just in time to catch herself. As she stared into the pit, she scolded herself,
Watch your step! You have to get all the way to Grukarr’s lair.

She glanced over her shoulder in the direction she had come from, toward the faraway forest that had long been her home. And Moss Island, the place she was supposed to rendezvous with Promi before Ho Byneri. Would she make it all the way back there in time? Would he?

First,
she reminded herself sternly,
I have work to do.

Onward she trudged, always toward the gleaming summit of Ell Shangro that she glimpsed sometimes through the swirling vapors. The mountain looked closer, its massive ridges towering above the land. Yet this swamp, it seemed, went on and on forever!

She frowned, puzzling over the questions that had troubled her since she began this trek. Why had the swamp expanded so much since her childhood? And was that expansion somehow related to the forest blight? If so, how could the blight be afflicting trees even deep in the interior?

Suddenly, the curtain of vapors ahead shifted—revealing a dark, conical mound that rose out of the bog like a deadly fang. Grukarr’s lair!

Atlanta dropped to the ground, hiding behind the rotting carcass of an impala. Through the ribs, she saw that the lair was belching thick black smoke from its peak. Around the base of the mound, within a ring of stones, men were working feverishly, spurred by a dozen or more mistwraiths whose shadowy forms crackled ominously.

This lair isn’t a place where Grukarr lives,
she realized.
It’s where his slaves are forced to make something.

Staring hard at the mound, she wondered,
What, though? Exactly what is being made here in secret?

Just beyond the smoking mound, she could see, at the very base of Ell Shangro, the entrance to the tunnel that was, she now knew, the real Passage of Death. Soldiers, loaded down with weapons, continued to pour out of the tunnel. Now the wide plateau above the lair was completely jammed with warriors, stacks of spears and bows and other weapons, wagons bulging with supplies, and hundreds of animals to assist in the invasion—elephants, wildebeests, oxen, and even a few giraffes wearing harnesses to pull carts. She had seen such creatures before, grazing on the meadows west of the forest, but never in such numbers.

Atlanta gasped at the sheer size of this army. Much bigger than what she and Promi had seen in the vision, the invading force now numbered at least ten thousand. It would roll through Ellegandia, as unstoppable as a tidal wave.

No,
she remembered.
Surely the pancharm will stop them!

Atlanta shook her head, spraying clumps of mud. Didn’t Grukarr know about the pancharm, placed upon the Great Forest to protect it—and its country—from any invasion? The pancharm was so powerful, she’d been taught, it could stop even an army as massive as this one. So what was Grukarr thinking?

Then, more anxiously, she asked a different question.
What does Grukarr know that I don’t?

Stealthily, she crawled closer, moving like a cloud of vapor across the bog. Just outside the ring of stones, she hid behind a fallen tree whose blackened branches seemed to reach skyward, pleading for help.

Now she could see, in addition to the slaves working, the bodies of many more on the ground. Coughing and tripping on their fallen brethren, the men kept moving only because the mistwraiths constantly shot them with blasts of black sparks that struck like fiery whips. Whenever a man fell over, mistwraiths gathered around and pummeled him with sparks—either to force him back to his feet or to make certain he was really dead.

Out of the doorway at the base of the mound, four slaves emerged, struggling to carry a huge cauldron of some sort of boiling liquid. Lavender in color, the liquid bubbled with poisonous gas that reached upward like a dark, groping hand. Judging by how far the men leaned away from the cauldron, it was clear that this liquid, manufactured deep inside the mound, was powerfully toxic.

What is that horrible stuff?
wondered Atlanta, peering closely.

The faery in her pocket beat his wings furiously, whirring with all his strength. A single word formed in Atlanta’s mind, a word that made her shudder.

Ultrapoison.

Along with the word came its terrible meaning: a kind of poison deadly to all mortal creatures—especially those with natural magic. She bit her lip, thinking about what that liquid could do to the faery—and to all the magical creatures she loved, as well as the place where they lived. Any forest creature who touched what the cauldron held—whether bird or beast, unicorn or centaur, enchanted seedling or full-grown tree—would die. And judging from its effect on these poor slaves, the liquid would also sicken any human . . . before killing them too.

She scowled. Even immortal beings such as the tree spirits would suffer, especially if their mortal hosts perished. And then where would they go? To find refuge in the spirit realm . . . or to wander aimlessly until at last they withered away completely?

She watched as the slaves set down the cauldron. One of them breathed a little of the gas and fell over, so obviously dead that the mistwraiths wasted no sparks trying to revive him. Other men dragged the body away, while more arrived and placed beside the cauldron a large crate holding a pile of small gray objects.

Snails! They filled the crate, crawling on top of each other, spilling over the sides.

Immediately Atlanta noticed that they looked a lot like the snails she’d seen while crossing the swamp—except that the shells of those snails had glowed with a lovely hue. By contrast, the ones in the crate looked dull.

What,
she wondered,
is this all about?

Just then another man trudged over, bearing heavy iron tongs. Prodded by a blast of sparks from a mistwraith, he grabbed a single snail with the tongs and dipped its shell in the bubbling liquid, careful not to contaminate the living body inside the shell. Then he dropped the snail on the ground. Instantly, the creature started to crawl away, trying to escape to the swamp.

Over and over, the man dipped snails into the cauldron. Most of them managed to get to the ring of stones and slip into the muck beyond, although one was crushed under a man’s boot and another was grabbed by a hungry crow flying past. As soon as the crate of snails had been emptied, men replaced it with another full one.

Puzzled, Atlanta risked sitting up higher behind the fallen tree so she could see better. Suddenly she noticed something that froze the blood in her veins. As the snails crawled away, their shells began to change, emitting a lavender glow! With each passing second, the radiance grew stronger, making every snail an alluring lamp that would attract birds and other creatures.

Including me.
She glanced down at her hand that had picked up a snail, recalling how the faery had panicked when he sensed what she had touched.

All at once, she realized that her weakness had started soon after that moment.
No!
she cried in silent anguish.
I’ve been poisoned!

And then, in a flash, she realized much more. This was why the swamp was steadily expanding! Carried by thousands upon thousands of snails, Grukarr’s ultrapoison was contaminating everything on the swamp’s borders. On top of that, this same substance was causing the blight—destroying the trees and creatures of the Great Forest! For every time a hungry predator grabbed one of the snails and carried it back to its nest or den in the forest, all the living beings who had touched the toxic shell sickened and died.

Atlanta’s mind reeled.
The pancharm. There is a fatal flaw in the pancharm!

Designed to protect Ellegandia from a massive invasion, whether by mortals or immortals, the pancharm would only survive as long as the Great Forest survived. And the forest could still be destroyed—not by a sweeping invasion, but by a plague that consumed it tree by tree, spreading faster and faster with every hour until it had wiped out everything. A blight.

Atlanta would have screamed in rage, but that would have revealed her presence to the mistwraiths. She clenched both fists and squeezed so hard that her hands ached, then squeezed some more. Nothing could be worse! Everything she loved in this world was going to perish.

Desperately, she thought,
Now I know Grukarr’s plan. But I can’t do anything to stop it!

Inside her pocket, the faery trembled, sending out a wave of compassion. But the feeling washed over Atlanta without making her feel any better. For she also knew that her own time was short. Perilously short.

She probably wouldn’t have enough strength to get all the way back across the swamp. To warn her beloved forest of the danger. To make the rendezvous at Moss Island.

Or,
she thought with a pang of regret,
to see Promi ever again.

Grinding her teeth, she asked herself,
Is this how it ends for me? Will I just die in this wretched swamp like my parents did?

Slowly, she shook her head.
No,
she answered grimly.
Not while I can still do something to help.