“The poison!” Oi’alli grabbed Thomas by one arm and clung to him as she lost feeling in her legs. “Thomas! They have trapped us!” The mist stung her throat, and Tom held an arm over her mouth as her eyes watered and she wobbled on her bent knees.
Tom’s large clawed hands held onto her, trying to keep her on her feet, but she could not stand. The way her eyes became sleepy frightened him. All around him, her warriors staggered and fell, none able to move or do much more than try desperately to rub the burning mist from their eyes, blow their noses and take haggard breaths. In the mist there appeared myriad images of Doctor Ottenberg—hallucinations that walked among the Oi’tan, whispering to them and making underhanded promises, trying to persuade them to lay down their weapons and turn their leader over to the Bureau. The mist did not have the same effect on Tom as on the others, but he did see the duplicates, and his head swam. Angrily he swatted at them with his claws but could not touch them. Barking in frustration he chased down the phantoms, trying to find the doctor.
“A werewolf?” The doctor appeared before Tom, jabbing at him with a straight black cane. “How did this get in my fortress?” He rocked back and held the top of his cane with both hands, laughing in a most curious way. Tom swung at him and missed. It was the doctor all right, but his magic was making Tom misjudge his swing. “Why don’t you suffer like the others, hm? Still some strength in those knees?” The doctor wound back his cane and gave Tom a surprisingly strong smack in the leg. Tom’s body shrank in size. He shed his fur and his fangs fell out. Toothless as an old man for a moment, he waited patiently while his human molars grew back, then his incisors and front teeth. As the doctor laughed at him, Tom dropped to one knee, pretending to be weak.
“Manus magia,” whispered Tom. A light grew in his palms.
“What was that, eh?” asked the doctor, his distorted face jutting through the mist at Tom. “Agh!” he exclaimed, reeling back and swinging his cane. “Off with you!” He backed away and flailed his arms. Yata was flying around his head and pecking at him. As it snatched his tricorn hat and flew off with it, Tom took advantage of the distraction.
“Manus sancti,” said Tom, standing up and waving a hand through the air. The magic he’d cast was an awfully convenient kind, used to dispel defensive or misleading illusions. When the doctor turned to look at Tom, he wasn’t aware that his trick had lost its effect. With a confident smile he approached, sticking out his cane. A vicious looking needle protruded from it, dripping a potent poison.
“Another small dose ought to subdue you, I think,” he said. “I developed this myself. Careful study of old world, oil-based magic and local plants contributed to my discovery of a poison that—”
Tom seized the doctor’s cane, yanking it from his hand and turning it on him.
“Wait!” the doctor said, backing away as Tom jabbed at him with the needle.
“Where is the real medicine?” Tom barked.
“I can show you! Please, be careful!” He jumped like a cricket when Tom came close.
“I don’t believe you,” said Tom. “If Oi’alli dies, I will kill you!”
“I can heal them all. Please!”
“Keep still,” said Tom. He thrust the cane at the doctor and stuck him in the thigh with the poisoned needle. The doctor cried out in pain, cursing Tom and spitting as his unmasked face turned red. “Now I’ll believe whatever you tell me,” Tom said. “Let’s go get some medicine.” He seized the doctor by the collar and jerked him to his feet, walking him to the inner gate. “Open them! All of them!”
“Open the gates!” the doctor cried. The soldiers guarding the gates seemed ambivalent and unresponsive, unsure whether they should do as they were told. “This is the Magistrate-Doctor Ottenberg! I am your commanding officer! Now open the damned gates!”
The soldiers along the walls ran about hurriedly and pulled the braces from the gate, turning the cranks that pulled the doors inward. By this time, the rest of Oi’alli’s army had come around the fort and through the east gate, which had opened by order of the doctor. They spilled into the fort and found their brethren lying on the ground, weak and confused.
“Thomas!” called Wui’an. He stopped Tom before he walked through the inner gate. “What has happened to Oi’alli?” He shook Tom angrily and Tom pushed him off.
“She and the rest are poisoned. I am going to find the medicines and Simbi Anpaka. Your people need to keep fighting. The Ty’il and Cui’oi need to keep fighting. Do not stop.” He gave Wui’an a stern look as he spoke. As he turned to go, Wui’an stopped him again. Tom stared at him silently, looking at the warrior’s hard, silver eyes, watching his chest rise as he breathed heavily, the ceremonial scarring in his skin painted with dried blood and sand.
“She cannot die,” said Wui’an. “She … she is everything … to the people.”
“You should stay here with her,” said Tom. A sense of familiarity seized him.
“Be quick,” said Wui’an, letting go of Tom and hurrying back to Oi’alli. Tom looked over his shoulder as he left, watching as Wui’an lifted Oi’alli into his arms and carried her out of harm’s way. More of the Bureau’s forces had come through the inner gates, and the Oi’tan were pushing them back, jamming the doors open with large lumber.
“Hey! Hey, you, open your eyes!” said Tom, smacking the doctor back to his senses and pulling him along through the inner gate. He took cover behind the Oi’tan as they drove the Bureau back and spilled into the vulnerable inner grounds of the fort.
“We need to go through there,” the doctor mumbled. The poison was slurring his words. “There, around the barracks and to the hospital.” He pointed limply toward the south end of the fort, and Tom followed his directions, half-jogging around the large barracks, dangerously close to some heavily armed soldiers. Moving past them, Tom came to the hospital, which was not much more than several large tents situated inside the inner-south fortifications. Several cannons along the north and west fortifications thundered. The Ty’il and Cui’oi were still doing battle with the Bureau outside the fortress and hadn’t yet penetrated the walls. By the sound of it, Tom knew they must be close to succeeding.
“Which tent?” asked Tom, shaking the doctor.
“Fir-irst te-ent,” he said, his eyes rolling around as his head bobbed back and forth.
Because the doctor’s feet no longer worked properly, Tom dragged him along. The man’s heels left two ditches in the dirt as they skidded and bounced along. Tom threw open the flaps in the tent and went inside, dropping the doctor on his rear. Instead of asking the dopey man for help, Tom turned over every bag and box in the tent, looking for the medicine.
“Only a couple of vials,” said the doctor, lying down and holding his head. He became sick and suppressed a gag.
“These?” asked Tom, showing him a handful of glass vials containing a sickly yellow, oily liquid.
“Yes! Yes, please, let me—”
“Here’s yours,” said Tom, handing the man one vial. “The rest are mine.”
“Ugh …” The doctor quickly drank the entire contents of the vial and rolled over, a look of exhaustion and relief on his pale face. Tom lingered long enough to determine that what he had found was indeed the medicine he needed and then ran from the tent, past the barracks and back through the inner east gates, avoiding the central fort, where the action seemed to have moved. The Ty’il had brought down the outer west gate, and Tom heard them over the inner west walls, now inside the fortress.
Fire teams of Bureau soldiers jogged past every few seconds. They gathered as a platoon outside the barracks, and their platoon leader soon arrived on horseback, brandishing a cavalry saber and rallying the men. The mare he rode was something terrifying. It was heavily armored by a metal patchwork of skin; its seams were fitted together in ugly, wrinkled joints. It wore a horned, metal helm, and its wild eyes bulged forth from under the nosepiece. Strings of charms hung from its saddle. The lieutenant mounted on its back was a robust man in hi
s fifties, bearded and dressed in one of the Bureau’s finest uniforms and jackets, but he was equipped to fight as a warlock, not a cavalryman. He wore the traditional war robe of a magician, carried magical artifacts as well as blades on his belt, and instead of a hat he wore a hood under which he hid long, aged brass-colored hair. When the lieutenant ordered his men to charge through the inner west gate, he sheathed his blade in favor of a fistful of dark magic, pricking his arm and drawing blood. Tom was sure the man was a former magesmith, perhaps a veteran of the Highland Wars.
When Tom arrived at the eastern grounds of the fort, they were empty. Only the dead, wounded or poisoned still occupied it, sprawled on the ground, motionless or dazed. The morning sun shone through the outer east gate and cast its light on the slain, their smooth skin and silvery hair shining. Wui’an stood expectantly when he saw Tom.
“Did you find it?” he asked, stepping around Oi’alli and holding out one hand.
“Here,” said Tom, giving him every vial he had. “One vial cures one person. I’m sorry, but the rest will have to wait. If I can find Simbi Anpaka, they will live, but if I cannot—”
“I will make sure Oi’alli recovers, and I will use the rest of the medicine to help as many as I can,” said Wui’an, frowning. “I would fight, but …” He pried the stopper out of one of the vials and crouched down next to Oi’alli. Her hands clung loosely to his wrist as he held the medicine to her lips.
“No,” said Tom, “stay here. The fighting is almost finished. I need to find the idol.” Without wasting another moment, he left for the inner east gate and headed to the barracks. A sudden dizziness forced him to run slower, and he shook his head. Was the poison to blame? Tom kept moving, anxiety creeping through his nerves.
The excitement along the inner west wall was escalating. Fire teams of Bureau soldiers manned cannons and fired muskets down on the Ty’il and Cui’oi warriors just on the other side. As Tom approached the barracks he scowled in frustration. The enemy soldiers had quickly placed barricades around the building and were preparing to defend it should the Atlanteans break through the inner west and inner north gates. What this told Tom, though, was that there were important people and things inside the barracks, and he bet he knew what two of them were: Lord Poison and Simbi Anpaka. Because he felt either lucky or desperate, Tom let loose his curse again, transforming into a beast and getting as close as possible to the barracks without being seen.
Luck favored him; the enemy soldiers had left a loaded cannon unattended on one end of the barracks. Leaping out from hiding he darted for the cannon, planting one clawed foot on the vehicle carrying it and wrapping his arms around the barrel. Tearing the gun off its wheels, he picked up a priming iron and then carried the gun under one arm around to the entrance of the barracks. The soldiers at the barricade jumped with a start when they caught sight of a snarling, two-legged monster storming their way with a piece of artillery in its arms. Seven muskets popped up over the barricade and fired. The volley beat Tom in the chest and arms; it stung awfully until his body pushed the bullets out of his flesh. Stopping to raise the cannon, he touched it with the lighted priming iron, throwing it aside quickly so he could hold onto the weapon. The soldiers behind the barricade, not foolish enough to trust their wooden wall of defense, turned to run. Crackling and smoking, the fuse in the cannon disappeared with a puff, and Tom rocked back on his heels as the eight pound ball came out the other end with a bang, smashing through the barricade and filling the air with dust and splinters.
His shoulders aching, Tom dropped the heavy cannon and stretched his arms, flexing his fingers and massaging his wrists as he ducked inside the door to the barracks. As he entered, the damaged doorway caved in and dumped beams on his head and shoulders. He dug his way out and looked around, seeing that none of the soldiers were anywhere to be found. He quickly moved through the building, checking every room, no matter how small or large, before heading up the stairway to the second floor. The top floor looked to have been used as quarters for commanding officers, but now the musketeers were using the windows in every room to fire upon the Atlanteans as they came through the eastern and western gates. Tom made the mistake of walking right into the midst of an entire squad of enemy soldiers who appeared in doorways all along the main hall, aiming their weapons at him.
“Stop there!” A man with an unusually high voice appeared at the end of the hallway opposite Tom. A fire team preparing a cannon positioned themselves between Tom and the man. He wore a heavily decorated white uniform that concealed his arms and neck, and his face was hidden beneath an old, Italian plague doctor’s mask. The headbands made his thin, light hair stick up in all directions. “There is enough poison and oils stored in this barracks to spread disease to all of this island and its neighbors! All I must do is set fire to it, and you and your savages will have no hope of living! Turn back or surrender! Take this message to your leader!” The man, Lord Rainer Young, whom they called Lord Poison, waved a torch with one hand as he shouted, hiding behind his soldiers and the cannon like a cornered fox. “Stand down or we will fire! This is silver shot!” Lord Poison tossed a little ball down the hallway. It bounced on the floor and rolled by Tom’s feet. The man was not bluffing. The musketeers were prepared to bring Tom down.
Because Tom knew the man he was dealing with had a reputation for making irrational decisions, and because he was already panicked enough to have put a cannon between himself and Tom, the only option was to stand down. Tom relaxed, taking control of his curse and returning to human form. Bruised, cut, dirty and sore, he glared at Lord Poison from down the hall and couldn’t think of one witty thing to say. His heart and mind raced. Guns loaded with deadly silver bullets stared him down, and a frightened, stupid man sitting on a dangerous stockpile of poison shouted threats at him, twitching and pacing around nervously. Tom thought about Oi’alli, lying on the ground inside the fort, somewhere between life and death. He thought about Wui’an, waiting and holding onto her as the moments passed. Then he thought of Molly, probably in London, doing the same—waiting, hoping and watching out a window, wondering and worried.
“Help,” Tom whispered, reaching up and clutching the charm around his neck. It was all he could think to do. He’d forgotten all about it until now. The Haitian man on the beach had given it to him and said it would help, and Tom was crazy enough to want to believe him. “Please,” he asked again, his eyes glancing around at his enemies’ trigger fingers. “Please, help.” Everything around him became fuzzy and then clear again, making him dizzy. The mist he’d breathed earlier was beginning to affect him.
Lord Poison was shouting something, but Tom could not hear him. To Tom he seemed to move slowly, and his words came out in garbled, muffled hums. The man’s eyes seemed to take many moments just to blink once, and then he froze, arm in the air, an accusatory finger pointed at Tom, mouth open in mid-sentence. The musketeers, too, stopped moving, aiming their weapons at Tom like rigid, painted figurines.
Light footsteps came from one of the rooms off to the left, and out into the hallway shuffled an old Haitian man. With his left arm he leaned on a crutch, taking extra care when he set his left leg down. Because he slouched so, it was difficult to see his old face beneath the wide brim of his straw hat. From Tom’s point of view the old man’s head looked like a half-peeled, upside-down banana, because of the way his long, white beard fell from under his hat.
“Ah,” he said, tilting up his chin and finding Tom. He raised his right arm in a sort of waving gesture and looked at Tom as if he were supposed to say something.
“Are you Papa Legba?” asked Tom.
“I am, but what’s important about names, or faces?” He rested on his crutch and scratched his arm. “You’re the man from the beach,” he said, looking at Tom’s face closely and recognizing him. “I met you that day I was fishing. You kept your promise, then—”
“You? You were the fisherman?” Tom asked.
“Well, yes,” Papa Legba said, turning on
his crutch. “I asked you to carry me to Isla del Sol.”
“No,” Tom argued, “you gave me this veve and said it would help me.”
“Ah, what’s important about how I said it?” The old spirit shrugged and turned up his lips, unable to remember what exactly he’d said. At least, he pretended to. “We’ve come to the same place for the same reason, after all, haven’t we?”
“You couldn’t have just come here yourself and saved the people from the sickness?” Tom didn’t understand his role in the old spirit’s game.
“I’m an old, crippled man!” he answered. “How could I have gotten in here by myself?”
“Just the other day you were fishing alone, and you looked strong,” Tom countered.
“That was the other day, boy. Look at me now.” Papa Legba danced around his cane on his bony legs and shook the saggy skin of his arms, opening his mouth in a big, nearly toothless smile.
“I need you to help me,” Tom interrupted. The poison had confused him, and he didn’t care for the small talk. “I need to find Simbi Anpaka, and—”
“You mean this?” asked Papa Legba, taking a little wooden idol from the satchel on his back and holding it up for Tom to see. “Here he is. Just need to get him out. Let’s see …” His old hands turned the little idol over and over, and the wrinkles in his face squished and rolled as he squinted and twitched his nose. Finally he turned the figure, and with his thumb he scratched the paint off of the figure’s head until its face was no more. When he did, the little idol fell to pieces like a rotten stump, and the old man brushed off his hands. Another man appeared next to Papa Legba. He was younger and taller. Little vines clung to his arms and legs, lounging lazily across his feet and hands. The black hair on his head was very short and sharply contrasted with the spots of white paint on his face.
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