Atlantis Rising (17 page)

She glared at him sternly. “Don’t let it.”

“All right,” he promised.

“I have enough to get us through,” she explained. “But not any extra.” Leaning closer, she added, “And the greatest danger at night is not the fumes.” Hesitantly, she reached out her hand and clasped his. “It’s the specters. That’s how, I’m guessing, my parents died.”

He squeezed her hand gently. “That’s not how you will die, Atlanta. Or any of us.”

Not quite believing him, she nodded. Then, with her other hand, she stroked the pocket that held the faery. “You’ll survive this night, little friend. I promise.”

A rush of gratitude filled her, and she stroked the pocket again. She could feel the trembling of tiny wings.

“I think,” said Promi, “we should take turns keeping watch. I’ll go first.” He winked at Atlanta. “You’ve been working harder than any of us today. So you should get some sleep.”

She gave him a grateful look. “All right. But when you start to get tired, or if you see any, um . . . visitors—wake me up.”

“Fine.” He cocked his head toward Kermi, already sound asleep on the grass. “He worked hard, too. At least . . . his tail did.”

Atlanta lay down, her head on her arm. “Just keep . . . your sweetmint . . .” She finished the sentence in her sleep.

Sitting cross-legged, Promi peered into the deepening gloom. Darkness shrouded the swamp, except for the eerie glow from some of the fumes in the mud pits. Other than that, everything grew increasingly black. Shadows melted into shadows, twilight into night.

Then something changed. Pairs of gleaming lights, looking almost like fire coals, flickered in the distance. Promi stared at them, trying to make out their source. Meanwhile, he kept the sweetmint right on his tongue, just in case it helped to ward off more than poisonous fumes.

Closer the lights came, always in pairs, moving in a strange, rhythmic dance. Promi watched them intently. They weaved and swayed, illuminating the swamp, dancing in a free-flowing motion that was disarmingly pleasant. Almost . . . hypnotic.

Eyes,
he thought dreamily.
They look like eyes. Dancing so beautifully.

By now, he didn’t care that the eyes were encircling him, drawing steadily closer. He didn’t notice the long, curved claws that occasionally gleamed in the darkness. Just as he didn’t notice that his jaw hung slack, his mouth wide open . . . or that his sweetmint had fallen to the ground.

As the eyes closed in around him, the claws lifted to strike. Yet Promi saw nothing but the serene, ongoing dance of lights. He sat there, utterly still, waiting for whatever would happen next.

The claws raised to the level of his neck. They paused, set to slice off the head of this mortal who had dared to enter their realm. Just as they struck—

“Promi!”

Atlanta threw herself at him, knocking him over on his side. He slammed his head onto the turf, regaining his senses—just in time to see Atlanta wave her remaining sprigs of sweetmint in the air.

Eerie shrieks echoed around the bogs. The claws withdrew; the gleaming eyes scattered. Within seconds, the swamp specters disappeared.

Awkwardly, Promi sat up. His head hurt, and he felt dizzy, but his gaze met Atlanta’s. In the dim, wavering light from the fumes, he could see that she was both frightened and relieved. He started to speak, but before he could say a word, she popped a fresh sprig of sweetmint into his mouth.

“Try not to lose this one,” she said sternly. Then, more softly, she added, “You said you wouldn’t die.”

“I won’t tonight, thanks to you.”

She almost grinned. “That makes us even.”

“Good,” he replied, rubbing his sore head. “But next time you save my life . . . try not to kill me in the process.”

Quietly, she chuckled. “I’ll think about it.”

The Passage of Death

A recipe you think you know well can still surprise you.

—From Promi’s journal

A
t the first light of dawn, Promi and Atlanta set off again. Grimly aware of the dangers all around, they continued to trek east toward the mountains—and to Grukarr’s lair. Though they walked together, their bare feet squelching in the mud, they rarely spoke. Even Kermi, riding on Promi’s shoulder, stayed unusually quiet.

For Atlanta, the worst part of this trek wasn’t the endless peril of quicksand, snake pits, or swamp specters. No, it was the painful awareness that her parents had died in this very place—maybe in the next pit or fumarole to come into view.

Why,
she asked herself,
did they choose to explore the Passage of Death?
The very name made her wince painfully. Frowning, she realized that crossing this murderous bog was itself a kind of passage of death.
Yet here I am, doing the same thing.

Promi, for his part, worried about something else—something he liked even less than Unkhmeini Swamp. Their time was fast running out! Already Ho Byneri was only a week away. And the high peaks, where Grukarr’s lair was hidden, still seemed very far away.

All through that day, they trudged onward. When night fell and they couldn’t go any farther, they settled on a patch of grass that had somehow retained a hint of green color. But even that sign of life didn’t revive their spirits.

That night, as Atlanta took her turn at keeping watch, the swamp seemed strangely calm. She scanned the desolate bog, knowing that this was truly the last place she’d wanted to see. And the last place her parents had ever seen. Yet she also knew that, to have any hope of saving the forest and all its creatures, she had to be here.

For several hours, she watched the glowing fumes and shifting shadows, puzzled why they seemed so calm—as if the whole swamp were holding its breath. Waiting for something. But for what?

Whenever she felt drowsy, she pinched her ears. All the while, she chewed her sweetmint. Through the rest of the night, she watched, always alert for trouble. To her relief, she saw no sign of the swamp specters.

Finally, dawn’s first light started to filter through the fumes. Golden rays spread across the scene, making the swamp seem, at least for this moment, a bit less dreadful. The darkest shadows withdrew; light spread everywhere.

A pair of shapes suddenly caught her attention. Swathed in vapors, they looked hazy, undefined. Yet . . . they seemed very much like human figures. And they were, without question, moving toward her.

She bit her lip.
Could it be . . . ?

Blinking her eyes, she reminded herself,
It’s not them. It can’t possibly be them!

Yet even as her intellect and experience told her this was folly, her deep longing told her otherwise. The figures drew nearer, striding toward her through the vapors.

She glanced over at Promi, fast asleep, his head upon his arm. Beside him, Kermi lay on the grass, sleeping just as soundly.
Won’t disturb them,
she decided.
Not until I’m really sure.

Turning back to the hazy figures, she caught her breath. They were holding hands! Helping each other across the bog. Just as her parents would surely be doing!

Her heart pounded with excitement. She leaped to her feet, trying to see clearly through the swirling vapors. The figures still looked blurry. But more and more, they resembled the two people she most wanted to see.

Without even watching where she was going, she stepped off the patch of grass and into the muck. As her feet sloshed ahead, one of the figures raised an arm and waved.

“Mama?” she asked, the name catching in her throat. “Papa? Is that you?”

Now both of them waved. Then they stopped and opened their arms to greet her, their brave daughter who had traveled so far and endured so much to find them.

Atlanta broke into a run. Heedless of the danger, she hurtled straight toward a deep, bubbling pit that belched poisonous fumes. Just as she was about to plunge into it—

Promi tackled her from behind. They rolled in the mud, finally stopping at the edge of the pit.

Shouting, Atlanta kicked and struggled to get up again, shoving Promi away. But when she looked for the alluring figures, they had vanished. Only shreds of vapor remained.

At once, she realized her terrible mistake—and just how close she’d come to death. She turned to Promi and started to explain, then suddenly burst into tears. Leaning her muddy head against his shoulder, she sobbed.

Gently, he wrapped his arm around her. He didn’t try to say anything, sensing words couldn’t help. They simply sat there, dripping with mud, while she cried.

When, at last, her tears ended, she lifted her head and said just one sentence: “They were my family.”

Sadly, he nodded. “Even though I can’t remember anything about my family, losing them still hurts.”

She wiped one of her eyes, streaking her cheek with mud. “That’s horrible. At least I still have some memories.”

Lowering his gaze, he said, “The only memory I have, that little bit of song, I’m not even sure is real.”

She reached over and took his hand in her own.

“Maybe,” asked Promi hesitantly, “we can be . . . each other’s family?”

Atlanta smiled. “I like that idea.”

Secret Work

Once in a while, I do something stupid. And then once in a while, I do something extremely, idiotically, unforgivably stupid. You can guess which I do more often.

—From Promi’s journal

T
ogether, Promi and Atlanta walked back to the patch of grass and woke up Kermi. As soon as the kermuncle opened his eyes, he exclaimed, “Look at you two! You’re so filthy you might as well have actually gone and rolled in the mud!” Then, just to Promi, he added, “But even you, manfool, aren’t that stupid.”

Atlanta gave Promi a wink. “Really, you should keep out of the mud.”

“I’ll try harder,” he said with a grin.

Grumbling about getting his fur more dirty than it already was, Kermi reluctantly climbed up to his customary perch on Promi’s shoulder. Then, with no more delay, they set off, trekking toward the mountains again.

Now, though, the journey felt different to both Promi and Atlanta. While nothing about the swamp had changed—the terrain was no less dismal and the danger no less present—they felt somehow lighter than before. Their feet lifted a bit more easily; their legs moved a little more confidently. It was as if they were tied together with an invisible thread, pulled along by each other’s strength.

At midday, Promi spotted a rare spring with freshwater, bubbling out of the ground near a pair of twisted orange trees. Gratefully, they stopped to drink. Although what remained of the trees’ fruit had long since vanished and their only company was the twisted skeleton of a camel, the taste of clear water pushed suffering aside. No elixir from the spirit realm could have tasted better.

“Mmmmm,” said Atlanta, lifting her head from the spring. She replaced her sprig of sweetmint in her mouth, and not even its burnt charcoal flavor could detract from the wonder of freshwater. “I’d almost forgotten how good this is!”

“Me too,” replied Promi, water dripping from his cheeks and chin. “The only thing that would improve this would be a good big slice of lemon pie with honey crust.”

She almost grinned. “Too bad you left that lemon pie back in the City.”

Kermi lifted his small blue face from the spring and shook the droplets off his whiskers. “Don’t you people ever think about anything besides food?” He rubbed the fur of his tummy. “Not that I’d turn down a meal about now.”

“Why complain?” asked Promi. “You ate at least three moths yesterday. Plus one of the dried-up apples Atlanta found on that old tree.”

“Harrumph. You have no taste at all, manfool. Except, of course, in your choice of companions.”

Atlanta nudged Promi’s shoulder. “He’s got you there.”

But Promi didn’t feel like responding. Scanning their bleak surroundings, his worries came flooding back. “We’re never going to get there in time. Look how far the mountains are from here.”

He pointed to the vague outline of the high peaks, only barely visible through the swirling clouds of gases. “It’s at least another day’s walk. If we can survive that long.”

“Look at it this way, manfool.” Kermi blew a thin, ragged bubble. “If the swamp doesn’t kill us, we’ll all die anyway after Ho Byneri.”

Atlanta blinked. “My, that’s encouraging.”

“Unless,” the kermuncle continued, “we can get to Grukarr’s lair, figure out his plans, somehow save the forest, and—oh, yes—rescue the Starstone before Narkazan can turn it into a terrible weapon. Did I leave anything out?”

She blew a long sigh. “When you put it that way, it does sound a bit . . . difficult.”

“Impossible,” corrected Promi.

“Insane,” offered the kermuncle. Then, seeing Promi slouch glumly against one of the orange trees, he added, “Why don’t you do something to cheer yourself up, manfool? Like . . . write in your journal?”

The young man shook his head. “I only write down things I want to remember.” He tapped his tunic pocket. “This journal has been right here with me in all the best times I’ve ever had.”

Kermi nodded. “Like your times with me?”

Still not ready to find any humor in their situation, Promi didn’t answer. He merely sat there, rolling his sweetmint on his tongue.

Atlanta bent again over the spring and filled the small flask she carried on the hip of her gown. Then, having closed the flask, she dipped her finger into the spring and offered some water to the faery in her pocket. Eagerly, he lapped at the droplets, his antennae quivering with pleasure. Though Atlanta couldn’t be sure, the tiny creature’s wings seemed a bit stronger and more shiny than before. But she suspected that was only because of the strange light of the swamp.

“May you heal completely someday, little friend.” Even as she said the words, a wave of hopefulness washed over her. For a brief moment, she actually believed that somehow, against all odds, she and her companions might prevail.

Just then, a subtly glowing shape caught her eye. Crawling along the edge of the nearest mud pit, the shape—about the size of her thumb—moved slowly toward her. She stood up and darted over to see what it was.

“A snail,” she said in wonderment, seeing its glowing, iridescent shell. The snail radiated a soft lavender light, a stark contrast to the mud and smoke of the pit.

She bent down to pick it up. The snail slid slowly across her palm, its shell glowing like a sunlit amethyst jewel.
How beautiful,
she thought.
So there are some creatures besides poisonous snakes and marsh ghouls in the swamp!

Bringing the snail closer to her face, she said aloud, “You remind me that even in this desolate place, something good can survive.”

She decided to bring the snail over to Promi.
This will cheer him up,
she told herself.

Just then she heard him shout. She put down the snail, whirled around, and ran back to him.

Wide-eyed, he stood between the twisted trees. “Atlanta! I have an idea!”

“An idea?” she asked. “The way you shouted, I thought you were in trouble.”

“We’re
all
in trouble,” grumbled Kermi, now hanging by his tail from one of the tree branches. “
Especially
if this buffoon has one of his ideas.”

Ignoring the kermuncle, Promi said in a rush, “Our biggest problem right now is time, right?”

Kermi scoffed. “That’s true if you don’t count a deranged priest, a power-hungry immortal, a place called the Passage of Death, and an invincible weapon. Oh, right—and a swamp full of death traps.”

“Hush,” said Atlanta. “I want to hear his idea.”

“At your own risk,” grumped the little fellow, swinging from the branch.

“So,” Promi continued, “if time is running out, ask yourself this: Is there any other way we could see what’s really going on at the Passage of Death? Without actually trekking all the way there and losing however much more time?”

Confused, she shook her curls. “No! There isn’t any other way.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “But there is.” With a sad smile, he added, “I’ve pretty much filled every page already.”

Suddenly realizing what he was about to do—and what he was going to sacrifice—she protested, “No, Promi. Not your journal!”

But he was already whispering, “Listen one, listen all.”

The sound of wind rushed through the swamp, though none of the dark clouds of vapor were blown away. Inside Atlanta’s pocket, the faery trembled, feeling the presence of powerful magic. But all Atlanta noticed was the sudden disappearance of the bulge in Promi’s tunic that showed where he’d kept his journal.

Promi opened his arms wide. “Now show us,” he implored, “what is happening with Grukarr and the Passage of Death.”

A hazy figure appeared, striding toward them out of the swirling fumes. Grukarr! Atlanta gasped, afraid the priest himself had arrived. But no, she realized, this was only an image—a vision brought forth by Promi’s magic.

Against the backdrop of swamp vapors, the image of Grukarr grew more clear. Judging from the building behind him, an ornately designed structure with a red tile roof and mosaics depicting gold turbans, he was standing in a courtyard inside the Divine Monk’s temple. Possibly the same courtyard where Promi had stood just before sneaking into the Divine Monk’s dining room to steal a certain pie. On the priest’s shoulder sat Huntwing, whose savage eyes gazed at his master.

Grukarr adjusted his white turban, clearly enjoying its symbol of power. Yet something in his expression made it clear he wanted to exchange it for a gold one. When he lowered his arms, something flashed under the collar of his robe. The Starstone!

“Huntwing,” he commanded, “I need you to fly to the Passage of Death. See how many new allies have arrived. The time is near for them to strike! I need to know how many we have. Then fly back here to tell me.”

The blood falcon clacked his beak and rustled his wings.

“Meanwhile,” said the priest, “I must gather more minions to do the secret work at my lair.” His expression hardened. “They die too easily! After all my efforts to free them from prison, the least they could do is to work longer before dying.”

Huntwing lifted his wings to fly. At that moment, the image faded away.

Promi stared in astonishment at Atlanta. “He has the Starstone. I’m sure of it.”

She nodded. “Which means he probably killed Araggna. She would never have parted with it willingly.”

“Right.” His brow creased. “What did Grukarr mean by
allies
at the Passage of Death? Getting ready to strike—on Ho Byneri, no doubt. Could he mean mistwraiths?”

At the mention of those immortals, the faery quaked in Atlanta’s pocket. Gently, she touched her gown so the faery could feel the warmth of her hand. But this time, the gesture didn’t calm him. He grew even more panicked, beating his wings furiously.

“And another thing,” said Promi, still trying to make sense of what they’d heard. “What did he mean by
secret work
at his lair? Why does he need more men to do it—and why are they dying?”

All at once, a new vision began to form on the vapors. It looked like a view of the high peaks from the air. A view that could be seen by a bird—perhaps Huntwing—in flight.

The bird’s-eye view shifted, swooping down closer to the snow-capped mountains. There, jutting up higher than all the rest, stood Ell Shangro, the great smoking volcano. Below it, on one of its lower ridges, was a gaping black hole, a tunnel that ran deep into the mountain—maybe all the way to the other side, opening onto the plains of Africa.

Then the image moved lower, revealing something even more startling. Just below the tunnel entrance, on the wide fields covering the plateau above the eastern edge of the swamp, many men were camped—so many it was difficult to count. Five thousand? Or more?

Swooping closer, the image showed clearly that the men were armed with weapons of all kinds. Swords, spears, bows and arrows, maces, and shields abounded. Many of the men wore breastplates and helmets. At least several hundred had brought camels to ride, as well as packs of armored wildebeests.

“An army!” exclaimed Promi, watching in horror. “Grukarr’s allies are
soldiers
—an army of invaders!”

“Yes,” said Atlanta, bewildered. “But how could they ever hope to prevail? Won’t the pancharm that the spirits placed on the Great Forest keep them away?”

Promi shook his head, unsure what to think. Even as they watched the vision, more soldiers continued to stream out of the tunnel. “So the Passage of Death—”

“Is really a passage, after all,” finished Atlanta. “A tunnel that pierces the border of Ellegandia and connects it to the rest of the continent!”

“Which is probably why,” guessed Promi, “the ancient Divine Monks spread those stories about trapped spirits who’d kill anyone who came near.”

Glancing over her shoulder at the brooding vapors of the swamp, Atlanta swallowed. “Maybe the stories were really true . . . as we’ve seen.” In a softer voice, she added, “And as my parents discovered.”

Promi sent her a compassionate glance.

Abruptly, the vision shifted again, showing a conical mound just below the army’s encampment. All around its base, men were working—but it was impossible to see exactly what they were doing. What looked like bodies lay scattered on the ground. And throughout the area floated several dark, shadowy shapes that could only be one kind of being.

“Mistwraiths,” growled Kermi. “My least favorite immortals.”

At that instant, the vision clouded over and vanished. Atlanta and Promi stood there among the shifting vapors, pondering the meaning of all they had seen.