By the second day they were safely clear of the field of combat. Still, they did not slow their pace. Their observations had shown them that the citizens of Siriswirll were hard-pressed. Chachel, Glint, and Jorosab did not want to return in force to a scene like the one that had greeted them at Shakestone.
O O O
By chance, Irina was listening to Oxothyr expound on a particular aspect of cephalopodan learning when their session was interrupted by the commotion caused by the scouts’ return. When informed by a breathless Tythe that the trio had returned not only safe but with a prisoner, her interest was piqued even more.
“Can I come to the interrogation?” she asked the shaman. “I’ve never even seen a spralaker.”
“A chance to further your education, then.” Gathering his arms around him, the mage beckoned her to follow. Locking a few of his arms in her hair, Sathi allowed himself to be pulled along. His actions were both a game and an expression of low-key dominance. Irina didn’t mind. Underwater, the squid weighed next to nothing and his streamlined shape contributed little drag.
Several counselors had already arrived at the semi-circle of bright green and blue coral marking the northern edge of the camp. Huge black sea fans growing on the coral wall arched outward to form a kind of crenellated half-roof. One merson was conversing with an elderly octopus whose pale pink color indicated his anticipation.
Of the three returned scouts, the two mersons sat patiently on the sand. Transparent lateral fins rippling like the edges of a debutante’s silk gown, Glint hovered close by.
Catching sight of Chachel, Irina experienced a sudden and unaccountable urge to rush forward, throw her arms around the hunter, and congratulate him on his success in returning alive from the dangerous excursion. She focused on the impulse until it went away. What an odd whim. She told herself she would have felt the same sense of gratitude toward anyone who had risked his life on behalf of so many others. At the same time, she experienced no such urge to wrap herself gratefully around Glint. Or for that matter, the other merson who had accompanied them.
Very odd.
The counselors ceased talking among themselves when Oxothyr arrived. The shaman glanced briefly at the trio before summarily turning his attention to Jorosab. He did not waste time on greetings or congratulations.
“What news, then, of Siriswirll?”
The big merson drew himself up vertically in the water. “From what we could see, venerable mage, it lies under heavy and sustained attack. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of spralakers are trying to force their way into the town.”
A concerned murmuring rose from the counselors. Attacks by spralakers were far from unknown, but a coordinated assault in such numbers on a community the size of Siriswirll was unparalleled. Jorosab’s account supplied a perfect explanation of what had overwhelmed Shakestone, what now threatened to overcome Siriswirll—and if something was not done, was also likely to engulf their bucolic home of Sandrift.
“We must move quickly!” Waving all eight of his arms with as much strength as his elderly limbs could muster, counselor Vararem turned slowly from pale pink to an energized dark blue. “From what Jorosab tells us, not only is our beloved home in danger but every village from Sandrift to Soloss along the entire line of the western reefs!”
Oxothyr turned to his smaller counterpart. “Move we will—but with prudence and planning. A hysterical charge will do neither Sandrift nor the embattled citizens of Siriswirll any good.” From the attentive Jorosab, he shifted his attention to the other members of the scouting party. Under that intense stare, an intimidated Glint retreated several body-lengths. Other than glancing up, Chachel did not stir.
A long sucker-lined arm indicated the large, opaque carryall lying on the white sand near the hunter’s feet. “I sense that you have brought back evidence besides that of your eyes.”
Leaning to his right, Chachel began to remove the clam clip that held the sack secured. “Company, even unwilling, can be informative.” Pressing against a sensitive part of the mollusk with the fingers of one hand caused the bivalve to pop open. The top of the sack gaped free. The interior was quickly vacated.
Irina sucked in her breath, her gill flaps collapsing against the sides of her neck, as she realized she had seen spralakers before. Multiple times, on many occasions. But never one this big, this dangerous, or this intelligent. She had always thought of spralakers as entertainment, or food, or sometimes both. Never as a conscious enemy.
One look at the human-sized crab as it scuttled rapidly sideways across the sand, kicking up white grains in its wake, disabused her of any notions of cuteness.
A design engraved into the back of the crab’s carapace graphically depicted its wearer disemboweling a merson. A second, smaller motif might have been a sign of rank. Because the hardshell had been deprived of manufactured weaponry did not mean it had been disarmed. The major claws had been sharpened to give them an unnatural edge capable of cutting through bone as well as flesh.
“So that’s a spralaker.” Her reaction was a mixture of recognition and disbelief. “That’s the enemy that destroyed Shakestone and is attacking Siriswirll. Where I come from we eat them for supper.”
“As do we here.” Noting her reaction, Glint had hurried over to hover beside her. The cuttlefish had turned an unbroken gray. “The only difference being that we will consume them at any time of the day. They are a particular favorite of my kind and our close relations. That’s why spralakers hate manyarms even more than they do mersons.” He pointed to the prisoner, who continued racing in sideways circles searching for an escape route only to find himself confronted and blocked at every turn.
“The smallest species can barely mumble. Larger spralakers will make use of simple phrases. When they get this big, or bigger, they achieve a kind of rough civilization. There are no spralaker towns, no spralaker cities. They can raid and destroy, but they cannot really build. At least, that is what I have been told. Reality and stories often differ.” Gold-framed, one black eye locked with hers. “A little intelligence can be more dangerous than a lot.”
“From what I’ve been hearing,” she commented, “they’re smart enough to devise strategy.”
“In its simplest form, yes. What is different here, it seems, is that in addition to attacking in unparalleled numbers they are employing tactics never before encountered. Almost as if they are being advised by a non-spralaker intelligence.” He backed away slightly. “As to what is really happening, as to cause and effect, we will learn more, I am sure.”
In front of them, Oxothyr had begun to do just that. Realizing there was no way out, the spralaker scout had squatted down in the sand. Sharpened claws raised high, he readied himself to strike at any captor who came too close. Oxothyr was not afraid, but neither was the shaman unnecessarily rash. He could query the prisoner just as effectively from a safe distance.
“Hardshell, if you cooperate, you might be spared. Our concern is not the killing of individuals. It would be in your interest to tell us how many are in your force, what weapons they are employing, and who among you leads and makes decisions.”
The spralaker did not hesitate. “There are more of us than you can imagine and more coming to join with us every day,” he declared, waving his arms. “We have weapons you cannot imagine, and those who lead us have prepared for this for some time.” One claw swept wide to encompass the group of attentive counselors. “You are all become food. I am glad you have come to Siriswirll. It means more to die on behalf of the cold.”
Oxothyr’s confusion was evident. “The ‘cold’? Coldness is a quality of being, not an adversary.”
Swiveling on long stalks, both eyes turned back to the shaman. “You flaunt your ignorance, manyarm, the way a female does her eggs. Ours will hatch, while yours becomes sustenance only for memory.” Claws clicked together, heavy razors backed by organic hydraulics. “Come close and let me partition you!”
“Why?” The constant, steady waving of Oxothyr’s a
rms caused Irina to blink. Was he trying to hypnotize the spralaker? If so, it wasn’t working. “Why the need for all this killing? If your kind has an unforeseen problem, can we not talk it out together, over a ball of fish?”
“There is nothing to talk about in this,” the spralaker insisted, his contempt undisguised. “You will never understand until it is too late. The cold comes for all. Those who linger or fail to do its bidding will die. As you will die!” Kicking with all eight of his legs, he thrust himself upward off the sand directly toward Oxothyr.
As an attempt to inflict injury it was as bold as it was doomed. A quick squirt from his siphon sent the shaman skittering sideways and out of range of the spralaker’s claws. Snapping only water, the defiant prisoner drifted helplessly back to the sand. Those spralakers—crabs—she knew of who could swim at all could do so only fitfully, Irina remembered.
Flashing impatience, Jorosab removed the knife from his waistband and started to swim forward. “Leave this to me, shaman. I can make him talk.” He addressed the prisoner. “I will start with one eyestalk, hardshell, but leave the other so you can watch as I scrape your gill rakers.”
“No need, merson.” Before Jorosab could reach him, the prisoner reached back with one whetted claw, plunged it into his undershell, and in a single smooth motion tore out his own heart. Inhaling sharply, Irina swallowed enough water to drown herself—had she not been breathing the stuff. A couple of the assembled counselors uttered a startled word or two. It was Chachel who swam forward to wave away the swirls of life fluid that leaked from the dying body.
“Defiant words are nothing more than that: just words.” He kicked at the multi-limbed corpse. “This is a foe fit for supper, nothing more. I myself look forward to dining on more of the same.”
“The hunter is right.” Oxothyr drifted over until he was directly above the body of the scout. “We have much to do and little time in which to do it. Return to your schools. Inform and explain. Command all to get a good night’s rest. At first light we go to the relief of Siriswirll.”
“Or to our deaths,” Glint murmured from where he hovered close to Irina.
Taking the shaman’s words to heart, the assembly dispersed in a swift and orderly manner. As Sathi and Tythe worked to dispose of the dead spralaker, Oxothyr was left to consult with the returned scouts.
Nearby, a resigned Irina looked over at Glint. “I’m going to have to fight tomorrow, it seems. I know how to fight a little with my hands and feet, but that’s all.”
“It’s not hard to use a spear.” Retracting his two hunting arms, Glint demonstrating by repeatedly thrusting them in her direction. “Keep your adversary in front of you, back up if necessary, don’t let him get above or below you, and you’ll be fine. Chachel and I will look out for you.”
She nodded, not for the first time wondering if her altruistic instincts hadn’t got the best of her. Had she not volunteered to participate in this expedition, she could be back in Sandrift helping to care for the elderly and look after the children. No one here would blame her for having stayed behind. Not only was she an outsider; as far as the inhabitants of Sandrift were concerned she had all but redefined the term.
Of course, if she had stayed behind, she would not just live: she would have to live with herself.
“I guess both you and Chachel are pretty good with a spear.”
Glint’s tentacles curled inward in disdain. “Oh no, we manyarms prefer the use of far more sophisticated weapons. Multiple knives, throwing shells, and bow and arrow. Myself, I can handle three of the latter at once.”
She made herself envision a bow-wielding cuttlefish. It made sense. With its ten arms a cephalopod like Glint could fire off several arrows at once. Dozens of manyarms operating in concert would constitute a formidable force. She started to feel a little better about the battle to come. Clearly, mersons and manyarms brought complimentary capabilities to any skirmish. How could an army of cra—of spralakers, who could barely swim, hope to fend off an attack by agile mersons and swift manyarms who could strike at them from any direction?
She imagined that she would learn the answer to that troubling question as well as many others as soon as the sun once more rose above the mirrorsky.
— XI —
Day came up softly, as it always seemed to on the reefs of Oshenerth. The light of morning percolated through the water is if a master bowl-maker was slowly blending glass with flecks of gold. Underwater, sunlight did not hit you, Irina had learned. You fused with it. The glow became a part of you. An invisible illumination changed the world, and everyone was inside it.
Little was said as the well-armed relief force broke camp. A few of the older volunteers remained behind to look after the expedition’s supplies. Without supervision, the usual scavengers of the reef would help themselves.
One characteristic of underwater military movements struck her immediately. Traveling in three columns, the soldiers of Sandrift advanced in the absence of sound. Unlike on land, there was no tramping of feet to alert the enemy, no rumble of heavy equipment. Mersons and manyarms alike swam in silence. They also pressed forward, insofar as was possible, slowly and in single file to minimize the pressure wave their movement pushed out in front of them.
A perceptive shark might have detected their approach, the ampullae of Lorinzini along its snout picking up the presence in one place of multiple organically-generated electrical fields of a certain strength. It was a risk the counselors had no choice but to take. They could not hazard having their troops advance individually lest they be detected by any spralaker patrols.
Glint was explaining it all to Irina as Chachel swam ahead of them. “Hopefully we’ll manage to surprise the hardshells. We didn’t see evidence of any sharks working with them on the battlefield.”
Clutching the spear she had been given as if it was a protective talisman, Irina concentrated on keeping her place in the formation as she listened to the manyarm. “But I thought sharks were a traditional enemy of your kind, and of the mersons?”
“So they are.” Falling back beside her, Glint kept pace with periodic spurts from his siphon. “But that doesn’t mean they’re allied to the spralakers, either. A shark would just as soon enjoy a meal of hardshell as one of softbody. They are independent operators, are sharks. Some have access to special magicks of their own, others are nothing more than teeth with fins, and a very few will work together just long enough to facilitate a hunt. The two silkies who pursued the herald Zesqu all the way to Sandrift were an exception. They must have been very well paid.” The cephalopod wiped at his left eye with the back of a tentacle.
“But sharks are not soldiers. They are the bandits of Oshenerth. One day they will work for reward and the next they will turn upon and eat one another. Not the kind of fighters, however skilled, around which one builds a stable army. Even the spralakers know that.”
Irina considered. Off to the right a school of approaching trevally caught sight of the three columns, uttered a collective gasp of surprise, and quickly changed course. As the school was headed away from Siriswirll and posed no risk of giving the alarm, the soldiers from Sandrift saw no reason to pursue. Unsettled schoolish mutterings faded as the silvery mass vanished into the distance.
“I thought spralakers were also like that. Independent, I mean.” She rubbed at her own eyes, wondering if she would ever get used to the fact that though she kept them wide open underwater they did not itch or burn.
Glint gestured with a couple of arms. “Normally that is so. But these are not normal times.” He pointed sideways to a svelte mass that occupied the center of the middle column. “I have known Oxothyr a long time, and I’ve never seen him this worried.”
She nodded perceptively. “About the spralakers.”
“About the spralakers, yes.” The cuttlefish flashed a querulous yellow strewn with black. “And about other things.”
O O O
The unseen sun was still low in the sky the following morning when,
at a signal from the expedition’s leaders, all three columns rose in unison toward the surface. As she followed Chachel and Glint upward, it struck Irina that she had not been this close to air since her transformation. Swimming along just beneath the barely perceptible wavelets, she found that she could see irregular shapes above, on the other side of the mirrorsky. Clouds. She hadn’t seen a cloud in—how long had it been?
No one was looking in her direction. The pair of merson soldiers in line behind her were conversing among themselves. What would happen if she …?
Holding tight to the spear with her right hand, she thrust her left upward and broke through the surface tension.
For a moment there was nothing. Then she felt—heat. Not unbearable, not intolerable, but oddly foreign and unfamiliar. Her air-caressed skin began to prickle, as if that part of her arm was falling asleep. If she kept her hand out of the water, would it begin to burn? She didn’t think so. If her skin had been rendered that sensitive, she would have begun to burn already. What would be the reaction of those around her be if they saw what she was doing? For all she knew, she might be violating some serious, unknown religious stricture.
This was neither the time nor the day to challenge local beliefs. She drew her arm back down and her hand underwater. Before she tried such a thing again she needed to discuss the possible physical and social ramifications with someone like Oxothyr. Anyway, there was no more time to experiment. The sun was behind her, and soon there was blood below.
Swimming over the last ridge of coral, they found chaos.
Screams, shrieks, and the sounds of fighting had been increasing for some time. Without intervening lines of solid reef to impede the din of battle, the volume now intensified many times over. She tried to take it in all at once.
Oshenerth Page 17
