The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume

by Chad T. Douglas

  “You’re Simbi Anpaka? The loa of the plants and poisons?” Tom guessed, raising one finger. “Can you stop the sickness from spreading? My friends, they are dying and cannot fight anymore—”

  “The sickness is gone from their bodies,” said Simbi Anpaka, stepping closer and studying Tom’s eyes. “You will all soon have your good health again. Who are you talking to?” he asked.

  “What?” The question confused Tom. He looked at Papa Legba and then at Simbi Anpaka.

  “Who are you talking to?” This time the question sounded as if it came from the mouth of Lord Young, who was beginning to move again, slowly.

  “I think you are hearing things, my friend,” said Simbi Anpaka, cracking a wide grin and stepping back. The soldiers in the hallway were shouting again, but all their voices sounded so far away. “Mama Dlo and I are grateful for what you have done for our people,” he said.

  “Who?” Tom pinched his eyes closed and shook his head, craning his neck forward. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked to his right. A beautiful young African woman—another spirit—was standing next to him. She had long, bushy hair that bounced when she leaned forward; her eyes were solid brown and warm. A large snake rested on her shoulders and stared up at him.

  “Hold your breath,” she whispered.

  The three spirits disappeared. Once more Tom could clearly hear the shouting of the soldiers and Lord Poison. One by one, the locks on the muskets clicked back into firing position.

  “I say, who are you talking …” Lord Poison stopped abruptly and turned his head to look to his left, out the east windows as a loud roar approached. “Major, what is that noise?” he asked, turning to one of his men. The windows, walls and floors shook, and from inside the barracks everyone heard the eastern walls falling. The musketeers lost their footing, and Tom stumbled dizzily toward the wall to his left. A sudden crash of shattering glass came from his right as the east windows broke to pieces and flew into the hallway. Thousands of gallons of saltwater rushed through the doorways and into the hall, picking up the musketeers and sloshing them about. The walls buckled, and the ocean turned the barracks over, rolling it into the western gate.

  Tom felt the floor drop out from beneath him and watched as Lord Poison and his men flew through the air, striking the ceiling and smacking into one another. Burning salt water splashed into Tom’s face and filled his nose and mouth. As he shut his eyes, he spat out the brine and sucked in a deep breath, holding it tightly as his body crashed to the floor or the ceiling—he couldn’t tell—and the wall of water tumbled him over and over. White foam and gritty, brown sand blasted his face and skin. Something sharp cut his leg and he panicked, feeling the tickle of blood flowing beyond his control. His lungs ached, and he flapped his arms and kicked his legs, hoping to orient himself and swim to the surface, but he was trapped. As the oxygen in his blood thinned and he struggled, a shadow passed by and a strong hand grabbed him by the arm, pulling him up faster and faster until he breached the surface. The moment he felt the air, his mouth burst open and he sucked in fresh air, wiping his eyes and turning to see Wui’an next to him, treading the water with his powerful tail.

  “That was good medicine you found!” Wui’an said. “My chieftess, she is stronger than before. The life came back to her, and she brought the sea down upon the fortress!” Wui’an had never smiled in front of Tom as he did in that moment. Taking Tom by the arm, he swam to the nearest wall, and the two climbed to safety and sat while the ocean broke through the inner walls of the fortress, swallowing up the Bureau’s soldiers and driving the rest to flee across the island and into town.

  “I found the idol,” said Tom, “But in the water I must have lost it or—”

  “It is all right,” said Wui’an, waving a hand. “The Cui’oi have it.” He pointed to the north, where the Cui’oi had come. Tom saw their warriors swimming through the outer north gate and gathering outside the flooded fortress.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Yes,” Wui’an insisted. “I saw them carry it away from the barracks. I told my chieftess that you went to the barracks to find it. She told the Cui’oi, and their chief and his warriors came to help. My chieftess sent me to find you, because she did not have time to warn you about the wave.”

  “But Mama Dlo sent the wave,” said Tom, remembering his encounter with the three loa. “And Simbi Anpaka lifted the sickness.”

  “No, my chieftess asked the sea for help. She performed her magic and called the wave. I saw her with my own eyes.” Wui’an sat up on his tail and rested his weight on his spear. “When you are ready, we must go and meet with her and the Cui’oi.”

  “I am all right. We cannot sit about. I need to catch a ship.” Tom got up and made sure he hadn’t lost anything important. The sealskin pouch in which he carried his clothes and jades was tied and hanging on his hip; the Uyl Talisman was on his arm, but Yatagarasu was still missing. Unable to wait, he decided it would find him, and off he went with Wui’an, walking the tops of the fortress walls while the ocean receded back through the central fort and eastern gates. Once the fort was dry again, the two men climbed down to the ground and made their way through the partially destroyed north gates and out onto the north beach, where Oi’alli and her warriors were gathered with the Ty’il and Cui’oi. It was easy for Tom to tell the Oi’tan apart from the other two nations. Aside from having a quite different style of war garb, the Oi’tan were somewhat lighter skinned than the Cui’oi and Ty’il, the former being of African descent; the latter, of mixed Caribbean and African merfolk.

  “We must now march across the island. We must be sure the enemy leaves these waters! Our numbers are now far greater than theirs. I do not expect them to fight, only to run. Do not kill those who are unarmed or unable to fight. Enough blood has stained the sand and the sea this violent morning.” Oi’alli walked among all the nations as she spoke, holding Trenchmaker high and raising her voice loudly but gently. Her silver eyes were calm and strong. She carried herself like a queen, though her arms and legs had been spotted black and blue and a stripe of blood had dried on her chin where her lip had bled down over it. “May we now show our enemies our mercy, in the hope that one day they will share the earth and sea with us, just as this one has,” she said, turning to look at Tom as he and Wui’an approached. The warriors of the Cui’oi nation raised their curvy ko’ong knives in reverence, as did the Oi’tan and Ty’il raise their spears and shout in agreement. Tom simply nodded quietly in return. As the three nations left the beach and marched inland, Oi’alli waited behind and met Wui’an and Tom.

  “You have the idol?” asked Tom

  “Yes, it is in the hands of the Cui’oi, and they extend their thanks.” The sorceress watched as the armies moved away and pointed after them.

  “Has the sickness gone? How do you feel?”

  “Alive,” she said, giving him the same answer she had in Oi’tannan. “Your bravery and Wui’an’s protection have saved me from death.” When Oi’alli smiled up at Wui’an, the stoic warrior fidgeted and tried to keep his eyes on the ground at his feet. “If you are quick, you may be able to find yourself a ship now,” she said, turning back to Tom.

  “As long as I’m not needed here,” he offered.

  “No, you should leave before one of us owes the other another debt,” she insisted, giving him a stern look.

  Across the breadth of Isla del Sol Tom ran, not stopping for a heartbeat. At times such as this, he’d learned his curse wasn’t all that terrible. If he’d relied on only his human legs, he’d have a stitch in his side agonizing enough to kill him. However, with the stamina lent to him by his transformed body, he could run and jump as though he were a deer. A history of trading—and more often, stealing—in Isla del Sol had familiarized Tom with the island. While the Atlantean nations marched around the island one way, Tom took the other, staying on the beaches and actually passing by Bart Drake’s old ship house, which had burnt to the ground the last time he’d visited. It
was an ugly sight now, but certainly worse than Bart’s new, literal ship house. As much as it pained Tom, he kept moving, leaving the old charred foundation behind and hurrying into town.

  Isla del Sol was not a quiet place in terms of pirate traffic, street brawls and occasional half-hearted attempts on behalf of the Royal Navy to keep the peace. But that day the streets were empty. The rogues, thieves, magicians, half-humans, merchants and other denizens of the island had long gone into hiding after the first sign of trouble at the Bureau’s fortress. Now only the retreating Bureau and navy soldiers were about, and they were clamoring to the docks, pulling up their anchors and gladly leaving Isla del Sol to its own devices. Not a man among them wanted to keep his post on that hot little sandbar anyway, especially under the supervision of “Lady Rainer.”

  No one paid Tom any mind as he ran headlong through the crowds. Half-naked and unshaved, he looked like the average islander you’d see in those streets anyway. He’d made sure not to show himself without returning to his human form, but it had not been easy. He’d lost and regrown all his teeth three or four times that morning, and the sore gums were nearly not worth it. He had gathered up all the wolf teeth he’d lost, cleverly deciding to keep them since he had no money; in the right ports they were incredibly valuable. He’d once heard that some werewolves tried to make a living selling their teeth. The problem with that was that after several transformations in quick succession, the human teeth would stop growing back quickly or stop growing back at all, and then one had to decide whether to live as a toothless human or become a “pure” werewolf— permanently transformed.

  Luck favored Tom when he got to the docks. The Bureau had lost so many men during the battle that there were more ships than necessary to withdraw from the island. The larger warships were full of Bureau and navy personnel, but Tom didn’t need anything large. He looked for two shining qualities in every ship he’d ever sailed—speed and agility—and these came with smaller, more manageable vessels, the likes of which he found floating abandoned in the port. Just as he had in the Divide, he’d have to take on the work of a full crew, but the little schooner he’d nicked from the navy wouldn’t give him too much trouble. If he could sail it along the Gulf Stream out of the Caribbean, he could even hire a small crew if he needed one, somewhere in the islands, assuming they’d take their wages in teeth. As he left the island Tom heard the flapping of wings and looked up to see shadowy Yata gliding leisurely overhead, catching the warm wind under its wings. Gracefully it landed atop the foremast, its black tail feathers flying behind it like a flag and shining in the midday sun.

  IV

  The Dirt King

  The Cui’oi first came to the Caribbean on European ships leaving West Africa. They came as slaves, crowded into the bellies of trading ships by the hundreds and thousands. They were not of one particular nation or people, but many. The first century or so of their history was spent on the island of Haiti, where they lived only to work the fields owned by the colonists. During this time they did not call themselves the Cui’oi and did not share a language, which they did only after the local ichthymorph nations began attacking trade ships in the waters off the coast. As the colonists and merfolk became enemies, the slaves and the merfolk became allies. When the Ty’il and their neighbors successfully raided ships, any surviving slaves were taken to Ty’illat or Nuk-Lo and simply became ichthymorphs. This is how the nations came to learn the languages of the slaves, and the slaves of Haiti came to learn Atlantean. After some time the slaves on the island could speak to one another and with the merfolk safely and secretly. They organized uprisings with the help of the Ty’il, abandoned the plantations and eventually escaped to the sea. The once mixed people of Haiti had become one, and if you ask their elders how they came to be called the Cui’oi, they will touch a finger to their lips in thought, and slowly they will recite an old legend, older than the Cui’oi. Its origin is difficult to trace, but it has roots in the folklore of the Haitian slaves. It is the story of the Dirt King.

  In times nearly forgotten, there was a king named Kofi, in West Africa, who had come into possession of power and fortune through his father, who had been king before him. Kofi ruled five neighboring tribes, and while he was still a young man he restored peace between his kingdom and the next, with whom his people had been at war for generations. Unlike his father, who had accrued wealth by collecting tributes from the people, Kofi shared his own wealth with the people, especially when times were difficult. He had no want for wealth and did well enough to care for his family and their cattle. His life was a good one for a brief time, but his troubles as king were endless. Ruling the five tribes and settling disputes made him unhappy, so he passed his title to his oldest cousin in his father’s lineage. Kofi was happier without the burdens of kingship resting on his shoulders. Raising his family and tending to his cattle was not easy, but it was simple, and he was content. Again, for a time, he was happy, but soon the tribes met with unrest. Old differences sparked war; not enough rain fell on the land, and the new king was not strong enough to lead the people. If his incompetence was not enough, he refused to share his wealth with those suffering from hunger, and instead demanded tribute from those less fortunate, including his cousin, the former king Kofi. This was all Kofi could stand, and he resolved to flee from the land with his family in order to find a place where he could live a simple life without having to worry about wars or kings, hunger or greed. Everywhere Kofi went, he had to run. Every king of every tribe was like his cousin, trying to take from him his cattle, his daughters, anything and everything. Kofi had no choice but to go north, into the desert. As he and his family fled, Kofi asked the spirits of the earth to help him. Appearing to him in the desert, they spoke their wisdom.

  “You may run and run, Kofi, but you cannot be free if you are never at rest,” they told him. Kofi did not understand and felt as though the freedom he desired was impossible.

  “How can I be still and never be caught?” he beseeched them.

  “You are like the earth, Kofi,” they said. “As a king, you gave and gave to the people, never asking for anything in return except respect and love. Dirt can be trampled and used again and again, but never destroyed. It can only become smaller and smaller. A grain of dirt is almost nothing, and the earth takes nothing but that which willingly comes to rest in it.”

  “My family and I want nothing more than to be,” said Kofi, finally understanding. He and his wife and daughters walked through the desert toward a place where there were no people, and as they walked, they became smaller and smaller, shrinking, as if by magic, until each became a grain of earth, small enough to slip through the crease in your fingers. Centuries of desert winds blew them across the dunes, and eventually they came to the sea, where the tides swept them over the oceans to a place where none had gone before, and where none would ever find them. Here, Kofi made himself a king again. Because there was no one to challenge him, he was always king, and because he had none to rule, he never worried about the strife of his subjects, and because he needn’t worry, he enjoyed being the king.

  The Cui’oi elders always smile when they finish reciting this legend, and anyone listening who isn’t Cui’oi never really seems to understand the story the same way the elders do. It isn’t the true story of their origins, of course, but that isn’t the point of the tale. When he finishes, the orator will then squat down and pick up a handful of sand or dirt, which, in Atlantean, is called “cui” (kway). Then, he will crown himself with it and stick out his chest and say “oi” (wee), meaning “king” or “ruler.” He is the dirt king, the freest man who ever lived.

  —from the Journal of Geoffrey Mylus

  Not until Tom stopped in Bermuda did he realize he’d chosen his ship wisely. A second time he owed Lord Young his thanks, for it was the young lord’s private schooner that Tom had stolen in Isla del Sol. He made the discovery upon picking the locks on the drawers in the heavy maple desk that sat in the captain’s quarters, in whic
h he’d been staying. At first he didn’t care too much to know the contents of the desk, but his common thief’s sense told him that locks precede valuables. While he went ashore one morning he had taken a risk and bought some cheap tools with one of his teeth. Aboard the ship again, he had broken into the desk by the afternoon. Inside all manner of lovely things awaited him; best of all was a handsome sum of the lord’s money, as well as some letters signed by the Baron of Who-Knows-Where or the Duke of Something-and-Such. Tom didn’t recognize a single name, but he knew the letters could get him out of trouble if, or more likely when, he got himself into it.

  Without much to entertain himself, Tom spent most of the days working the ship even when he’d already set himself to his course and fixed the sails and rigging to his liking. Sometimes he’d sit out on the deck and face east, taking out his jades to meditate and lose himself. Late in the day, however this would often become difficult. His soul would return to him, and his heavy thoughts would come swooping in like fat vultures to rest on his brain and pick at his worries. In the evenings he began to think of his time in the Divide, and then he would think of his brother, Harlan, whose soul was still trapped in the living world, inside the instrument of death Tom had made to defend his own dark agenda what felt like ages ago. That night in Barbados had brought him nothing but questions and pain, the same kind that led him there in the first place. He’d almost cost Molly her life just getting there. Molly. Her name meant to him what a cool breeze means to a flame. It softened him; took away the edge just enough to remind him … not of his mortality, but … to offer it to him just long enough to quiet the hissing and roaring of the slow burn … to keep him company, and to blow away the smoke so that he might every now and again taste the sweeter air and burn brighter and stronger.