Atlantis in Peril (19 page)

War of Glory

J
aladay crawled slowly across the vaporstone floor of her cell. She grimaced, realizing how much more effort that required than it did when Narkazan's mistwraiths had first captured her, however many days ago. Now even the simple motion of crawling made her feel dizzy and exhausted.

All part of his plan,
she reminded herself.
He wants to weaken me—first my body. Then my resolve.

Indeed, the crumbs Narkazan had allowed her to eat were just enough to keep her functioning. Barely. He knew that even an immortal's body needed some sustenance, but he wasn't going to give her more than the minimum. After all, she'd only use her added strength to try to escape.

Or to try to send a message,
she thought grimly.

Weakly, shoulders trembling, she crawled toward the wall that held a door—a door that had opened only rarely since she'd arrived. Even in this utter darkness, with her second sight deadened, she knew exactly where to find that door. How? From the faint rays of light that filtered through the narrow food slot. And also from the hint of fresh air that wafted through that small opening.

Right now, it was the promise of better air that had motivated her to move herself across the cell. Her prison felt more stifling by the hour, so tightly enclosed that she had trouble breathing. Yet again—she knew that was part of the warlord's plan.

Survive,
she told herself firmly.
Must survive! For as long as I can.

But even as she made that vow, she wondered how much longer that could be. For as Narkazan knew, the worst kind of starvation came not from lack of food—but lack of hope. And here in this cell, with nothing to stir her senses or her second sight, with barely enough air to breathe, with no one to talk with, and no way to escape . . . hope could not last long.

Why should I try so hard to stay alive? What's the point?
Discouraged, she ran a hand through her straggly hair.
Maybe it's best for everyone if I just . . . die.

Panting, she reached the food slot. Lowering herself flat on the stone floor, she turned her head toward the thin opening. The faint wisp of air that flowed over her face struck her like a plunge into a cold lake.

She knew, of course, that a little bit of air really wasn't much of an improvement. But for the moment, at least, it revived her. Not enough to do anything remarkable, since she was still so weak she could hardly stand. Yet . . . enough, perhaps, to shift her thinking.

After all, she was still alive. Still herself. And still aware of Narkazan's plans for war—what he called
my war of glory
.

That war would begin very soon. Forces were getting ready. Battle plans were being finalized.

She'd heard, through this very slot, a few scattered clues about those plans. Nothing detailed, unfortunately. But she'd learned enough to know that the whole spirit realm was about to explode in chaos and wrath. The wrath of Narkazan.

Mistwraiths had gathered secretly in the Caverns of Doom.

A vast army had assembled somewhere behind a spell of concealment.

The warlord had offered a huge bounty on the lives of Sammelvar and Escholia. And a far greater one on her brother, Promi.

I don't know what to do with all this,
she thought.
But maybe I can still do something that could help!

Lying by the bolted doorway, she clenched her jaw. For she'd remembered exactly why she needed to stay alive.

Suddenly, she heard Narkazan shout angrily at someone. Then, as that person spoke, she caught her breath. For she recognized his voice—a man who had battled Promi and Atlanta fiercely on Earth, and who now served his master in the spirit realm.

Grukarr.

Pressing her ear as close as she could to the food slot, she strained to hear. She didn't want to miss a single word they said.

The Gift

I
mbecile!” shouted Narkazan, so loud it seemed to shake the walls of his chamber.

The scars on his face turned dark red, as if they were rivers of blood. “Let me understand this. You actually had him in your grasp? Right there inside the flying ship?”

“Y-yes, Master,” answered Grukarr, shuffling his boots on the vaporstone floor.

“You are certain it was him? That miserable young meddler marked by the Prophecy? The one who stole my Starstone?”

“Y-yes, Master.”

Narkazan leaned forward in his thronelike chair, thrusting out his narrow chin as if it were the point of a sword. As he peered at Grukarr, his fiery eyes burning, the pair of mistwraiths floating by his side released an angry crackling noise. Black sparks sprayed on the floor, almost scorching Grukarr's boots.

Speaking in a voice that was much quieter—and much more frightening—the warlord asked, “And you had him under control?”

“Completely,” the former priest assured him.

Narkazan raised an eyebrow.

“Well . . . maybe not
completely
. But, Master, I promise you it seemed that way! I had him bound up in a net made of fibrous vaporstone, tightened securely all around his body. Why, I even had that furry blue beast of his bound up, too.”

Narkazan bared his teeth and growled, recalling the moment when that very same beast had attacked him and nearly gouged out his eyes.

Grukarr scowled. “There was no way they should have escaped. No way!”

“Except they did.” Narkazan's eyes seemed to sizzle. “Of all the idiots, fools, and half-wits ever to serve me, you are the
worst
.”

Swallowing hard, Grukarr said meekly, “As you say, Master.”

“No! This is exactly
not
as I say!” The warlord's shouts echoed inside the chamber—and, no doubt, in Grukarr's head. On the other side of her cell door, Jaladay heard those shouts clearly . . . with the first hint of a grin since she'd been captured.

“I commanded you to capture him,” Narkazan ranted, “and bring him straight to me! Instead, you bungle everything and set him free again!”

The mistwraiths crackled ferociously. Black sparks flew into the air. One spark landed on Grukarr's pant leg, instantly burning a hole in the fabric. It very nearly burned his skin, as well, but he brushed it away just in time.

Glaring at his subject, Narkazan tapped one of his bloodred tusks. “Something tells me, imbecile, that you tried to inflict a bit of torture on your prisoners. Is that right?”

Shuffling nervously, Grukarr mumbled, “Well . . . I might have tried using a few blades on them.”

“Is that all?”

“And . . . well, maybe giving them a bit of skinmelt potion.”

Narkazan tapped his tusk. “And?”

“M-m-maybe also . . . hanging them outside the ship. But that never happened! I never actually did it.”

“Because they escaped, you moron!” The warlord slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. “Your desire for vengeance spoiled everything!”

He leaned forward even more, jutting his chin. “For that, you shall suffer dearly.”

Grukarr's face went white. “B-but, Master . . .”

“Unless,”
continued Narkazan, “you can successfully hunt down that young man and his troublesome pet. Can you do that simple, straightforward task?”

“Oh yes! I most certainly can, great and forgiving master.”

“Good. Because if you fail me again . . . I shall make certain that you experience all the tortures you tried to inflict on your prisoners. That's right—
all of them
.”

Grukarr made a sound like someone choking. He took a step backward.

“And, Grukarr,” concluded the warlord, “when I torture someone . . . he
never
escapes.”

For several seconds, Narkazan glared at his subject. Then, with a wave of his hand, he spat, “Go! Get out of my sight.”

Hurriedly, Grukarr backed away, then fled down the darkened hallway that was the room's only entrance. As he departed, the mistwraiths crackled angrily, hovering beside their master.

“Yes, yes,” he grumbled at them. “I did let him off far too easily. But he might still prove useful to me.”

Narkazan peered at the hovering mistwraiths. “I must leave briefly to inspect my growing army. I must make certain all the preparations are in order before we attack.”

The shadowy beings crackled with approval.

“My trip won't take long,” the warlord continued. “Until I am back, you and your fellow warriors must guard my lair. Be always alert! If any intruders dare to come near, give them the most exquisitely painful deaths you can.”

A fountain of black sparks sprayed from the mistwraiths.

“Good.” Narkazan grinned malevolently. “When I return, I shall look in on our prisoner. And if she has not changed her mind and decided to cooperate, I shall commence her tortures.”

On the other side of her cell door, Jaladay shuddered. Her imprisonment, she knew, would soon come to an end. A most horrible end.

Suddenly another mistwraith swept into the chamber, blowing out of the hallway like a dark, menacing cloud. Approaching Narkazan, the mistwraith crackled noisily, releasing a fountain of black sparks.

Listening closely, the warlord sat bolt upright. “Are you
certain
? A red glow in the mist of the borderlands?”

Excitedly, the mistwraith crackled. More sparks erupted, sizzling on the vaporstone floor.

A predatory smile creased Narkazan's face. “Well, well. The afterglow from mist fire!”

He sat back in his chair, tapping his tusk thoughtfully. “How very careless of you, Sammelvar! For now you have told me what you least wanted me to know—that the veil between the worlds is so weak you were worried enough to check it.”

On the other side of her prison door, Jaladay gnashed her teeth.
The veil,
she thought miserably.
So weak it can no longer shield the mortal world from Narkazan. And what's worse . . . he now knows about it!

Though she was already lying flat on the floor of her cell, she felt as if she'd slumped even lower. Her brief taste of hope had vanished. What remained in its place was the most bitter taste of all, a mixture of helplessness and despair.

In his chamber, however, Narkazan was feeling quite different. Almost giddy with this unexpected news, he chortled with delight. The mistwraiths, unsure what to make of this mood they'd never seen before in their master, huddled together anxiously.

Finally, Narkazan's chortling ceased. “At last,” he said to himself with satisfaction, “I am getting some of the good fortune I so deserve.” With a vengeful gleam in his eyes, he added, “And now . . . I have an idea of how to give that meddling son of Sammelvar the ill fortune
he
so deserves.”

Leaning toward the mistwraiths, Narkazan declared, “The young man of the Prophecy seems unduly fond of the mortal world below. Have you noticed?”

In unison, the shadowy beings crackled angrily.

“A wasteful dalliance on his part,” the warlord went on, “since the creatures of that world last just a few short breaths of our immortal lives. Besides, they exist only to serve our needs.”

He stroked the length of one of his tusks, savoring his new idea. “Let us turn his fondness for mortals to our advantage! I have a gift for you to deliver to that place he so cherishes. Yes . . . a gift he will long remember.”

As the mistwraiths trembled with excitement, Narkazan explained, “This will surely make him come out of hiding and speed back to the mortal realm. Then we can find him more easily! And this time,
he will not escape
.”

A chorus of ominous crackling greeted his words. “The poetic justice of this plan is simply beautiful,” crowed Narkazan. “For when he goes to Earth for this gift, he will cause further damage to the veil, weakening it even more.”

The mistwraith who had brought the news about the veil shook vigorously, snapping its dark folds.

“Yes,” agreed the warlord. “By then, the veil might have collapsed completely.” In a voice drenched with sarcasm, he added, “How very disappointing.”

The mistwraiths started to rustle noisily. But the instant Narkazan thumped his fist on the arm of his chair, they halted. “Now,” he commanded, “come closer together. All of you.”

As the mistwraiths pressed together, he thrust his whole arm deep into the center of their shadowy forms. Keeping his hand inside the knot of darkness, he grimaced. Then, slowly, he pulled it out. In his open hand, he held a crackling mound of black sparks—so many that they pulsed with negative energy, like an explosive weapon.

Narkazan squeezed the sparks in his fist. Shaking with the strain, he condensed them smaller and smaller. At last, when he opened his hand again, the sparks formed a glittering black lump no bigger than a pebble. Yet that lump vibrated in his hand, sizzling with enough power to cause terrible destruction.

“There,” announced Narkazan. “It is ready.”

He chortled once more. “Now,” he commanded the mistwraiths, “while I go to the army, you go to the place whose image I have just planted in your minds—and deliver this gift.”

The Dragon's Eye

A
s Ulanoma flew across the spirit realm, with Promi on top of her head and Kermi perched on the young man's shoulder, nobody spoke. Although Promi was near enough to the dragon's ears to be heard easily above the constant wind, there was really nothing to say. The plan had been hatched, the commitment made, the warning given. All that remained now was to try—and hope—to survive.

Misty air blew across Promi's face as they flew, sometimes offering glimpses of marvelous, endlessly varied worlds. He caught sight of one world in the shape of an upside-down tree sprouting from a deep blue cloud. Its fruit, hanging upward from every branch, glittered like newborn stars . . . and smelled, somehow, like the fresh passion fruit he'd tasted in the Great Forest. With a pang, he wished he could show this place to Atlanta.

Then he saw a bubbling cloud of mist that gave birth continuously to worlds in different geometric shapes—a flat triangle, a squat pyramid, a quirky polygon, a perfect sphere, and more. At the moment of each world's birth, the bubbling cloud released a different sound, like the chime of a bell, that ranged from deeper than the deepest roll of thunder to higher than the first peep of a newborn robin. As a result, the cloud literally bubbled with sounds—a celestial symphony that knew no beginning and no end.

Most of the time, however, Promi just watched Ulanoma's ocean-glass earring as it swayed and jostled with their journey. Though the magical crystal stayed dark, revealing nothing specific about their ominous future, sometimes Promi caught glimpses of what looked like tiny pieces of complete darkness, blacker than the rest of the crystal. Did they foretell the black sparks of mistwraiths? Or did they result from the dragon's own dark thoughts?

Do not trrrrry to rrrrread the futurrrrre frrrrrom my earrrrring,
Ulanoma cautioned him telepathically.
It is harrrrrd enough forrrrr me to sense its many meanings, even afterrrrr all these yearrrrrs.

Onward they flew, soaring on dragon wings across the limitless expanse of the spirit realm. Ulanoma's turquoise scales flashed and rippled with each wingbeat or turn of her massive head.

Finally they reached a massive gray cloud punctured with ominous, lightless pits. The air around them grew sharply colder; Promi could see the dragon's breath as she flew. He knew without asking that they were passing the Caverns of Doom. The dragon's earring, now utterly dark, made a sound like ice breaking. A web of tiny cracks spread across its surface.

Clenching her enormous jaw, Ulanoma flew even faster. She wanted to move past this place, as quickly as possible.

Not long after that, all the companions suddenly tensed. The dragon slowed her flight, gliding on the cold wind. For there, dead ahead, was a jagged cloud in the shape of icicles.

Suddenly Ulanoma banked to the right. For her golden eyes had spied, hidden in the crack between two icicles, a rectangular structure made of solid vaporstone. Compact and impregnable, the structure gleamed darkly.

Narkazan's fortress.

It is time,
the turquoise dragon told Promi and Kermi telepathically.
Do not trrrrry to enterrrrr until I have drrrrrawn off all those miserrrrrable warrrrriorrrrrs.

Promi placed his open hand on the scales of her immense brow.
May you succeed, my friend. And may you survive this day.

Deep in her dragon's throat, she growled.
I wish you the same, Prrrrrometheus.

Promi leaped off the dragon, carrying Kermi on his shoulder. They flew off to one side where a swath of gray mist provided cover. Just before they hid themselves, Promi caught one last glimpse of the dragon's eye. Within its diamond shape, he saw a mixture of rage, determination, and revenge.

Plus one more quality—something he recognized immediately. Something he'd never seen before in a creature as immense and powerful as a dragon.

Fear.

Then Ulanoma roared, loud enough to shake many distant worlds. Her roar echoed across the icicle clouds.

Instantly, a horde of shadowy beings poured out of the fortress. At least fifty mistwraiths flew in tight formation, swiftly pursuing the dragon who had dared to approach their hideaway.

With another powerful roar, Ulanoma beat her wings hard. She flew off into the mist, trailed closely by the deadly mass of shadows.