Atlantis Rising (23 page)

Her Last Living Effort

Our last moment can reveal our first priority.

—From her journal

A
tlanta stared at the conical mound at the farthest edge of the swamp, knowing the poisonous smoke that poured from its peak was part of Grukarr’s terrible plan. A plan that would ultimately kill every tree in the Great Forest, leaving no creature alive—all to clear the way for his invading army.

Peering through the branches of the fallen tree that hid her from view, she watched the shadowy mistwraiths gliding over the ground, ruthlessly shooting black sparks at slaves to make them work harder. Or sometimes, it seemed, simply to make them suffer more pain. All the while, more and more deadly snails, their shells glowing from the ultrapoison, were released to enter the swamp . . . and the lands beyond.

What can I do to stop this?
she cried silently.
I’m just one person, growing weaker all the time.

She looked at the hand that had held a contaminated snail.
Now I’m dying,
she thought miserably.
Just like the forest.

Lifting her gaze skyward, she asked again,
What can I do? If not to stop this disaster, at least to slow it down.

Her eyes focused on something at the base of the mountain Ell Shangro. At the nearest edge of the plateau, which was swarming with soldiers who had come through the Passage of Death, sat a long row of animal pens. Enormous elephants, armored oxen and wildebeests, plus several giraffes jostled for space in those pens. Brought along to assist in the invasion, those beasts had been given little attention—and even less space. As such, they looked angry, uncomfortable, and altogether unhappy.

Maybe . . . ,
thought Atlanta. Accustomed to reading the moods of other creatures, she knew those animals would leap at any opportunity to escape. She nodded, a desperate plan forming in her mind.

Running a hand through her mud-caked curls, she plotted the best route to the elephants’ pen. Spying a large female who was swinging her trunk against the wooden rails that imprisoned her, Atlanta decided to go there first. Luckily, the army hadn’t bothered to post any sentries, since no one had expected intruders to find this place.

Atlanta turned back to the lair, knowing she had no time to lose. Mistwraiths kept relentlessly prodding slaves to work until they died. Meanwhile, masses of toxic snails were being released. Every second she delayed, her chances diminished.

Gathering all her strength, she began crawling across the bog, moving as stealthily as a swamp snake. She slipped around the ring of stones at the base of the lair, always alert for the menacing gaze of mistwraiths. Often, she hid behind the dark plumes of vapor that floated over the swamp, using them as cloaks.

Finally, she reached the steep slope that led up to the plateau. Slowly, with great effort, she crept upward, grasping tufts of grass for support. But as she moved higher, she rose above the swamp vapors, making her easy to spot if anyone happened to look her direction.

Heart pounding, she reached the top of the slope. Exhausted from the strain of the climb, she lay facedown to catch her breath. Finally, she lifted her head—and what she saw gave her a surge of hope.

Directly in front of her stood the elephants’ pen. Just as she expected, it had been built hastily, with little concern for sturdiness. Much of the wood showed cracks and splits; just a few nails here and there held the structure together. And why not? The soldiers who had built this pen expected to be here for only a short while before launching the invasion.

Right there, watching Atlanta through the rails, stood the female elephant. Both larger and older than she’d seemed from below, the elephant waved her massive, wrinkled trunk as if she was about to bellow a warning to the others in the pen.

Meeting her gaze, Atlanta said quietly, “I’m here to help you, old one.”

The elephant studied her for several seconds, then lowered her trunk. Still uncertain, she twisted her huge ears anxiously.

Cautiously, Atlanta crawled over to the pen. Leaning against a post for support, she rose to her feet. Then she went right to work, yanking at the rails that looked the least sturdy. But she was too weak! The rails wouldn’t budge.

The elephant joined in, wrapping her powerful trunk around loose planks and tugging with her enormous weight. At last, a plank pulled free. Then came another. And another.

Suddenly a soldier on the other side of the pen saw Atlanta. He shouted angrily and sprinted toward her, waving his broadsword.

Atlanta peered at the elephant. “Go,” she urged. “Go now! Escape while you can!”

But the elephant remained inside the pen. Despite the gap in the rails, she seemed confused, or in any case not willing to break all the way through the fence. As the soldier dashed up to Atlanta, brandishing his sword, the elephant merely watched with her dark eyes rimmed with long lashes.

Pointing his sword at Atlanta’s chest, the soldier spat some words in a language she’d never heard before. Beneath his helmet, he glared at her. When she didn’t reply, he lifted his sword to strike.

The elephant swung her trunk forcefully, smashing the soldier so hard he flew over backward and tumbled down the slope. For an instant, Atlanta’s gaze met the elephant’s, and a silent understanding passed between them. Atlanta moved aside, clearing the way.

“Now go,” she said, clutching a post for support.

The elephant raised her trunk and bellowed to the other captives. Around the pen, other elephants heard the signal and filled the air with their own bellows. Led by the old female, they crashed through the fence and thundered down the slope. Straight through the area around Grukarr’s lair they stampeded, scattering mistwraiths and slaves as they roared through.

All across the plateau, soldiers suddenly turned, shocked to see the elephants escaping. Meanwhile, the other animals realized their time had finally arrived. Oxen burst through their pen, knocking it down, along with the fence containing the giraffes. Wildebeests joined the stampede, charging across the plateau and smashing through the warriors’ encampment. Giraffes shook off their harnesses and kicked over wagons.

Watching the mayhem, Atlanta couldn’t help but grin. While she lacked enough strength to walk all the way back to the forest and would eventually die from the toxin, she had at least done her part.

Of course, it would only be a matter of time before this vast army of soldiers regrouped and brought their camp back to order. Just as the mistwraiths would eventually regain control and continue manufacturing the ultrapoison, sending out more snails to spread the blight.
For now, though,
she told herself with satisfaction,
they have a stampede to handle.
And that had been worth her last living effort.

In addition, she took comfort from something else. Many of the animals she’d helped to free would escape. Leaning against the post, she watched elephants and wildebeests running into the swamp. Some would not survive that desolate terrain, of course, but many others would reach the other side safely. Maybe they would even find peaceful places to live, grazing contentedly, far from the invasion that would otherwise have cut short their lives.

Sighing sadly, she whispered, “I’m sorry, Promi. That’s the best I could do.”

Weakly, she sat on the ground. Soon, she knew, the soldiers would discover her and then kill her. But before she died, she had done something to help her forest home. Though the invasion would still happen, she had slowed it down.

And that, she felt sure, would have made her parents proud.

Just then a warm breeze blew against her face. A large gray shape towered over her—and she realized the breeze had been someone’s breath. The female elephant had returned!

Before Atlanta could even start to stand, the elephant’s trunk wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer. At the same time, the elephant kneeled down so Atlanta could crawl aboard. Understanding, she pulled herself onto the elephant’s massive head.

Atlanta leaned forward, exhausted. The last thing she remembered were the shouts of soldiers, the crackling of mistwraiths, and most surprising, the flutter of long elephant eyelashes against the skin of her forearm.

Better Company

Beautiful things are very hard to create—and far too easy to destroy.

—From her journal

A
tlanta awoke to water splashing against her face, drenching her completely. Opening her eyes, she saw the elephant standing above her, spraying water from a stream. Beneath the elephant’s trunk, now being used as a hose, an unmistakable grin spread across the creature’s broad, wrinkled face.

“All right! That’s enough!” Atlanta waved her arms wildly until the spraying stopped. Then she, too, grinned.

Dripping wet, she wiped her face with her sleeve. Her gown was so dirty that she only succeeded in smearing herself with mud. Yet she barely even noticed, for she’d just glimpsed her surroundings.

Trees! No more swamp! She listened, rapt, to the sounds of a blackbird singing and a squirrel scurrying in the branches overhead.

Right away, she recognized where the elephant had brought her—the baobab grove at the eastern edge of the forest, the very spot where she had plucked sprigs of sweetmint before she and Promi had begun their journey across the swamp. All around her, the immense trees lifted their boughs skyward, their smooth gray bark gleaming in the late afternoon light.

Though she still felt weak and a bit dizzy, Atlanta knew well that if the elephant hadn’t rescued her, she wouldn’t be alive right now. Those soldiers wouldn’t have shown her any mercy after what she’d done to disrupt their encampment. And the mistwraiths would have been even more vengeful.

Eagerly, she opened her pocket to check on the faery. “How are you, little friend?”

The faery hopped out and looked at her with bright eyes. Clearly healing well, he perched on top of her wrist. He studied her intently, his luminous blue wings whirring softly by his side. The very sight of him filled her with delight.

Reaching down to the roots by her side, she picked a single wild raspberry. She handed it to him, though the berry was so big it took both his arms to hold it. Instantly, she felt a rush of gratitude.

Very gently, she returned the faery to her pocket. Then she drew a deep breath of air rich with forest aromas. As beautifully as the river god’s gift had transformed the rancid air of the bog into something breathable, this was even better. For she was breathing, once again, the good air of home.

She gazed up into the elephant’s round eyes. “You saved me, old one. I am grateful.”

The elephant’s ears, as tattered as ancient leaves, rippled pleasantly. Then, reaching down with her trunk, she helped Atlanta to her feet. For a long moment, they stood there, young woman and old elephant, facing each other. Finally the great creature raised her trunk and lightly stroked Atlanta’s cheek.

With a triumphant bob of her head, the elephant turned and strode off toward the west. Her heavy steps shook the ground, making the baobab branches sway in rhythm. Atlanta watched her depart, a huge gray form surrounded by huge gray trees.

All at once, the full seriousness of her situation struck her.
I know Grukarr’s plans! And I must warn the forest—as well as Promi!

Leaning against a tree trunk for support, she raised her arms into the air. “Trees, my old friends! Beware the snails whose shells glow with lavender light. They are poison, I tell you. Grukarr’s poison!”

She waited a few seconds, then spoke the same message again, this time in the language of the baobab trees, a language full of deep whooshes punctuated by sharp clacks. But even before she’d finished, their branches stirred, rustling their leaves. Soon the whole grove echoed with intricate whooshing and clattering as the trees tossed and swayed.

Atlanta nodded, certain the message would spread beyond this grove to other trees, and ultimately to the whole forest.
And now,
she thought,
I need to go to Moss Island.

She pushed off from the trunk and stood on wobbly legs, feeling weaker than before.
Not too weak to walk, though.
She swallowed.
At least . . . not yet.

Trying not to trip on the wide roots of the baobabs, she trudged through the grove and into the forest beyond. Slowly, she pushed through a field of ferns whose fronds seemed to grab at her legs. Leaning forward, she kept moving, though she felt less steady than ever.

Far above, a dark bird circled in the sky. If Atlanta had noticed it, she would have known by the shape of its wings and its sharp talons that is was some sort of raptor—perhaps the bird most people called a blood falcon, which others chose to call a Royal Huntwing.

Panting from exertion, she entered a dark grove of cedars where the sweet smell of resin helped renew her strength. Even so, she knew that at this rate, she might well get to Moss Island after Ho Byneri—and after Promi had left for somewhere else.

Leaving the cedar grove, she paused to sit on a rock and catch her breath. Absently, she glanced up at the sky—and gasped. For she could see, rising out of the trees ahead, a thick plume of smoke.

Fire!

Must try to put it out!
Instantly back on her feet, she lurched toward the source of the smoke. Half running, half stumbling, she pushed herself to the limit, knowing she needed to get there fast to save whatever trees and animals were endangered.

The stench of smoke grew stronger with every stride. She broke through a dense web of acacia branches and crossed a glade where shaggy red mushrooms surrounded a badgers’ den. Moments later, she reached a stand of spruce trees by a stream.

Flames rose from one of the spruces, crackling vigorously. Atlanta watched, her lungs heaving, deciding how best to stop the fire.

Then, to her surprise, she saw someone else—an old, white-haired monk in a tattered brown robe. Feverishly, he was darting over to the stream, filling his cook pot with water, dousing the flaming branches, then fetching more water.

She raced over to join him, grabbing his drinking mug for another container. Together, they labored hard for several minutes, continually showering the tree. Though they never said a word to each other, they immediately bonded in the crucial task at hand.

At last, the fire died out. Not even a spark remained, nor a single flaming needle, either in the branches or on the ground.

Atlanta collapsed, exhausted, on the turf laden with spruce cones. The old monk flopped down beside her, breathing almost as hard.

Finally, he turned toward her, regarding her with warm brown eyes. “By the Great Powers, dear child, I’m glad you came when you did!”

“And I’m glad you were here,” she replied. “You were already working hard when I arrived.”

The old fellow looked at her sheepishly, scratching the white curls atop his head. “As well I should have been. You see, I started the fire myself, by accident, heating up my supper.” He waved at the coals from a small cooking fire. “Next time I won’t do that so close to a tree.”

Atlanta patted his arm. “Lesson learned, then.”

“And by the Great Powers, I have plenty more lessons to learn.” His face crinkled in a grin. “My name is Honi.”

“Atlanta. And I’m still learning, too.” Her expression darkened. “Honi, do you know Grukarr?”

Above their heads, branches started creaking angrily in response to the priest’s name.

“Certainly,” answered the monk, glancing upward. “Can’t say I like him, though. I saw too much of his wickedness during my time in the City.”

“Well, you were right. He’s now started a blight to kill this entire forest! All so he can bring an invading army from the Passage of Death! And meanwhile, he’s working with Narkazan in the spirit realm to—”

“Wait now, dear child.” Honi waved his hands so she would stop. “You’re rushing along faster than a bounding unicorn! I can’t follow what you’re saying.” He peered at her. “On top of that, you look positively ill. Are you feverish?”

She nodded weakly. “I’ve been poisoned. And . . . it’s getting worse.”

Quickly, Honi unstrapped his flask. Handing it to her, he said, “Here, my child. Drink this. It’s my own special remedy. Never fails to renew my strength.”

Taking the flask, she uncapped it and took a sniff. The smell was as sweet as honeysuckle nectar.
Promi,
she thought,
would like this.
Gladly, she took several swallows.

“Thanks,” she said, returning the flask. “Now I’ve got to go to the—”

She halted, puzzled why her tongue suddenly felt numb. Why her dizziness had worsened. Why her eyelids felt so heavy.

Before she could say another word, she crumpled to the ground. Inside her pocket, the faery writhed in distress.

Honi watched her casually, tightening the cap on his flask. With a grin, he said, “You may be brave, my dear. And your forest may be pretty. But the priest is the one who pays me.”

Trees all around swished and moaned, swaying angrily. Perched on a low branch, Huntwing looked down at Atlanta’s limp body and clacked his beak in approval. Unfolding his rust-colored wings, he lifted off, eager to alert his master.

Meanwhile, the old monk turned to the noisily swaying trees. Looking up at the branches, he said, “If only you really could talk, you’d make much better company.”