Oshenerth

by Alan Dean Foster

  Kicking backward, waving both arms as she tried to clear the water in front of her, Irina sought to distance herself from the rapidly clouding chaos. It was as if a cave was suddenly coalescing around her, reducing her vision and threatening to clog her gills. She started to cough. Brushing frantically at her neck, she tried to keep the water she was breathing as clean as possible. Inhaling ancient volcanic grit would be as harmful to her new gills as it would have been to her old lungs.

  Worst of all, in the thickening rain of ash and gravel she couldn’t see what was going on around her. Unlimbering her own spear from the scabbard on her back, she prepared to defend herself against anything that might come at her from out of the gloom. She was not ashamed to admit later that when something reached out of the grainy murk to touch her right shoulder she screamed as loud as she could. It was the first time she had screamed underwater and she was surprised at how shrill it sounded in her own ears.

  The appendage that had made contact belonged to a brightly glowing Glint.

  “Calm yourself, Irina-changeling. It’s over. The hunter proves himself yet again.”

  Around her the dark ocean fumed and boiled. “It doesn’t feel like it’s over,” she responded. “Or look like it.”

  “There is no current here.” The luminous cuttlefish moved up alongside her. “Though it looks to be the same consistency and weight, much of the material of which these pillars are formed is lighter than normal rock. The broken bits will take some time to settle to the ground. Come.”

  She followed but did not put away her weapon. Only when the twitching but expiring body of the smoker serpent came into view did she halfheartedly slide the spear back into the holder strapped to her back. As the rain of dark grit began to thin, she was able to see the rest of the monster’s body. It lay stretched out between and among those smoking towers it had not smashed to bits in the course of its death throes. Chachel’s spear, she noted, was still sticking out of the back of the creature’s skull.

  Sathi and another, larger squid were slowly and respectfully easing the dead body of the ill-fated female cuttlefish up off the pair of stilled fangs on which she had been impaled. The stockier cephalopod’s corpse was dark now, the bright internal lights dimmed. Her ten arms hung limp, like a basket of dead eels.

  Irina had witnessed cephalopodan funerals before, following the fighting at Siriswirll. Feeling even more the alien outsider than usual at such moments, she had kept her distance.

  Though the dead soldier was half again as long as her, two-thirds of its length was made up of tentacles. These now hung loose and lifeless as the corpse was carried through the water by an octopus and squid. Only the glow from their internal lights enabled her to see the body. When the female had bled to death in the mouth of the smoker serpent, so had her bioluminescence. The usually compelling, complex cuttlefish eyes were as dark as the surrounding water.

  Disposing of the body would have been a solemn enough occasion near the mirrorsky, where the ceremony would have been brightly lit by shafting sunlight. Here in the inky depths it was as if death pressed close all around. Irina could not have stood aside even had her presence gone unrequested. Far better to attend a funeral and be in the presence of others than to linger too long with total blackness clawing at one’s back—and the back of one’s mind.

  Words of praise and remembrance were intoned. Both mersons and manyarms took turns speaking of the dead female’s bravery, of her dedication to her extended family and her contributions to the social life of the Sandrift community. When Irina’s turn came she spoke simply, raising her voice just enough to enable herself to be heard above the steady roar and rumble of the surrounding smokers.

  “Huysalee fought so that I could live.” Having scarcely made the acquaintance of the dead fighter, she had nothing more to add. But the looks on the faces of the attending mersons and the color changes that flashed through the bodies of the hovering manyarms indicated that she had done just fine.

  It was then that she noticed Chachel was not present. Reluctantly, she swam over to where Poylee was hovering parallel to the ground and remarked on the hunter’s absence.

  Waving an arm at the all-encompassing darkness, it was impossible to tell if the merson was annoyed at Irina’s presence, by her question, or was simply disgusted with Chachel.

  “He’s out there somewhere, scouting. He should be here. But I suppose someone has to keep watch, even at a time like this.”

  Irina looked around. It was pure reflex, since there was nothing to see in the darkness except her companions and the occasional burst of light from some phosphorescent algae or lifeform clinging to the smoking towers.

  “By himself?”

  Poylee rolled her eyes. “No, of course not. That ridiculous cuttlefish friend of his is with him. Chachel can carry light enough, but he still can’t see as well in the dark as a manyarm.” Her tone was reproving. “You should know that by now. Haven’t you learned anything in all the time you’ve spent among us?”

  Irina did know that, and she had learned much. One of the things she had learned was that there was no point in arguing with or getting into a fight with Poylee, whose inexplicable animosity gave no indication of subsiding. Having explained several times that there was nothing between her and the hunter Chachel and that she had no interest in him, she saw no point in repeating the disclaimers yet again. The eccentric notion that such a relationship existed had not merely found a place to fester in Poylee’s mind, it had taken up permanent residence there.

  When the last admiring words had been spoken, the expedition’s manyarms gathered together on one side of the deceased cuttlefish. Coming up behind or beneath them, the mersons took firm hold of their multi-limbed companions. This bracing support enabled the manyarms to unleash the full power of their propulsive siphons without blasting themselves in the opposite direction. The combined watery thrust sent the increasingly pale corpse tumbling off into the darkness, the dead Huysalee’s arms spinning around her like a slow-motion pinwheel.

  Only when she had passed completely from sight did the surviving manyarms abandon their formation and begin to gather up their belongings. The final send-off was unexpectedly poignant.

  It was only later that she was able to catch up to Glint. Swimming easily alongside the softly glowing cuttlefish, she voiced an old concern that her Oshenerth surroundings had made new again.

  “Tell me, Glint: what does your kind think happens to the essence of a person after they die?”

  The cuttlefish cocked one eye at her as he jetted along. “That’s easy. They get eaten.”

  “No, no,” she corrected him, “I don’t mean the body. I mean the soul, the spiritual part. Do manyarms believe in such a thing? My people do.”

  The luminous cephalopod did not answer immediately. When he finally did, it was clear he had given the matter more than his usual thought.

  “I think such a belief may be a consequence of living in void. If there is nothing around you to hold reality together, nothing you can feel, I can see how such a belief might take hold. But here below the mirrorsky we are always in contact with actual matter.” He gestured thoughtfully with a tentacle. “If there is such a thing as the essence of which you speak, I believe it would be touchable, or capable of being sensed—or eaten.”

  She still felt that Glint was not fully comprehending the concept she was trying to express. Probably Oxothyr would have a better grasp of the nature of the individual soul. Having heard what the cuttlefish had to say on the matter, however, she was not sure she wanted to discuss the notion with the shaman. She had always been comfortable with the belief that everyone had a soul and she did not want to take a chance on being argued out of it. Not in this cold, dark place where she felt that the belief was both necessary and reassuring.

  It was an idealization she might have found difficult to sustain in a chillier, far distant corner of Oshenerth.

  O O O

  Borne by two dozen spralakers of varying size
and species and flanked by members of his personal armed retinue, Kulakak’s palanquin advanced slowly through the forest. Reaching all the way from the rocky ground to the mirrorsky, thick strands of leafy green kelp towered two hundred feet and more above the procession. It was an unusually clear day and the light filtering down through the dark green made a magic of its own not even Sajjabax could have outdone.

  The kelp forest lay just outside the capital city of Xayyac. Behind the entourage it sprawled across layers of terraced rock, obscuring the seams of gray basaltic stone. Often on such excursions Kulakak would look back at the vast metropolis of which he was supreme ruler. But not now. Not today.

  All his thoughts were concentrated on determining how best to proceed now that the manyarm shaman who had been the difference in the battle for Siriswirll had been located. Where that troublesome sac-head had been discovered was something of a surprise in itself. If not for the extensive network of spralaker spies spread throughout nearly all of Oshenerth, the rival mage’s whereabouts would have remained unknown.

  Of course, the Great Lord’s spies did not know for certain the intended destination of the esteemed manyarm and his fast-moving escort. Any attempt to find out would likely have resulted in such overly bold scouts ending up not on the mark but on a menu. But they had been able to observe, from a safe distance, the deep-water travelers’ presence, mark their passing, and note the direction they had taken upon departure from the surviving town of Siriswirll. All the signs and inferences pointed to them heading for a logical destination.

  Benthicalia.

  He was not displeased by this assumption. In striking a single overwhelming blow he would at one swoop remove two of the greatest continuing threats to the Overturning: this meddling shaman and the most powerful city in the southwestern reefs. The depth at which Benthicalia lay was unusual for a merson-manyarm community, but it would not hinder the work of his soldiers. Most of them could fight as efficiently at depth as if their backs were in contact with the mirrorsky itself.

  “Gubujul!”

  Sporting an assortment of polished stones and trailing tendrils of glimmer-stained sea whip, the red-banded Paramount Advisor’s appearance was even more outlandish than usual. No doubt if pressed as to the need for such an extravagant display he would reply that any excursion beyond the bounds of the royal court demanded an effort to awe the populace. As the Great Lord, Kulakak could have pointed out that he felt no such need. Instead, he said nothing. He understood well the importance of encouraging and rewarding those who served him. Those who under-performed their duties in spite of such magnanimous dispensations on his part could always be demoted to the level of a quick snack.

  “The remnants of the force that destroyed Shakestone and nearly took Siriswirll have been combined with the Grand Legions of the Inflexible Palp,” he informed his always attentive Advisor. “It is my plan to provision them better than any spralaker force has ever been equipped and send them south to reduce Benthicalia to rubble.”

  “Ah yes, that is where the party of the shadowy manyarm shaman was reported to be heading.” Gubujul’s multiple antennae gave a timorous flutter. “Benthicalia is said to be strongly defended, my Lord. There are walls there. Real walls, not like the crude obstructions our forces encountered at Siriswirll.”

  “Exactly. Taking such a city will shatter any semblance of defiance to our rule in the southern reefs,” Kulakak pontificated. “Word of its destruction will spread like oil, smothering any thought of resistance. With Benthicalia subjugated, our waiting multitudes will be assured safe passage southward and have no difficulty in taking full control of that territory. All that richness, all that complex and colorful living space, shall be ours.”

  “And what of the present residents?” Gubujul knew the answer, but he never tired of hearing it declaimed from the Great Lord’s mouth. Kulakak had a way of making the inevitable sound twice delicious.

  “Some will flee to the great southern plains and eventually starve there. Most, I am convinced, will be content, even relieved, to remain as our slaves. As for the finned folk, it will be between them and us as it has always been: some will fight against us, some will offer allegiance, and the rest will become fit for food or indifference.” He sounded more than pleased. “Already there are those in the south who are smart enough to perceive which way the current is running and ally themselves with us.”

  Gubujul was dutifully impressed. “Yet again my Lord has drawn forth certainty from disaster.”

  Reaching down over the side of the palanquin, a heavy, powerful claw struck the gracile advisor hard enough to send him tumbling legs over antennae, but not quite hard enough to break anything.

  “No talk of that! Not yet. The encounter at Siriswirll gave birth only to enlightenment; not to triumph, and not to defeat. It is true the retreat was badly managed, but many survived to fight again another day, and much was learned. Much that will be used to great effect against the fortifications of Benthicalia.”

  Staggering back to his feet, Gubujul used his long, slender forearms to clean and straighten his aching antennae. “Yes, my Lord. I am certain it shall be as you say. When do you leave to take command of the Legions of the Inflexible?”

  From his divan atop the palanquin the Great Lord Kulakak peered down at the Paramount Advisor. “I? I am needed here, Gubujul. To supervise the war, to plan strategy for the Overturning, to organize the thousand and one details it demands. Also to deal with the venerable Sajjabax, his works and his madness: a task no one else can manage since all seem to lose control and purpose and courage when brought into his presence.”

  “I see, my Lord.” Gubujul thought hard. “Then to whom will you give command of the operation?”

  Silence ensued, saved for the click-clacking footfall of the Great Lord’s multi-legged bearers and the submissive muttering of those spralakers, watching safely from a distance, who farmed and hunted in the forest.

  Gubujul’s red-banded white exoskeleton was comparatively impenetrable, but the workings of his mind were not.

  “Oh no, my Lord—I couldn’t!”

  Stalked eyes bent sharply in the Paramount Advisor’s direction. “I am sorry, Gubujul. I must have picked up some algae in my hearing organs. Did I hear you say you ‘couldn’t’?”

  The shocked stenopus swallowed hard. “What I meant to say, my Lord, is that I am not worthy of such an honor. Your offer of it momentarily stunned me. I am flattered and overwhelmed. But as a counselor who has always been focused on matters of a non-military nature I would be remiss in my duties if I did not confess that, despite your confidence in me, it might be in the best interests of the spralaker people if another other than myself was put in charge of so important a martial venture.”

  Silence enveloped the royal palanquin. Then laughter boomed across the gently rolling ground, to disperse among the sky-sweeping green growths.

  “That’s one reason why I keep you around, Gubujul. You never fail to amuse me. As concerns movements in the field, the planning and executing of them will be the province of the Marshals of the Legions. Surely you did not think I expected you to devise actual strategy?”

  “I was unsure, my Lord. Not that I lack self-assurance but …”

  “But you haven’t ever carried out a raid on anything larger than the burrow of a female spralaker with whom you desired to mate. Rest assured, Paramount Advisor, that I know your limitations as well as your qualifications, and that I would no more put you in command of a real skirmish than I would ask you to fight a sardine.”

  “Ah,” murmured Gubujul, feeling simultaneously much appreciated and duly snubbed.

  Inclining his bulk over the side of the palanquin, the Great Lord leaned closer. “I must have someone in overall charge whom I can trust implicitly. Someone who I am confident will let the commanders in the field carry out their work without interference from some meddling bureaucrat who thinks he or she knows better. Someone who will act as my direct representative and be able at
a word to settle arguments on my behalf. Someone who knows exactly what will happen to him if he fails in any respect to carry out my exact wishes.” Leaning still closer, the Great Lord locked eyes with those of the Paramount Advisor.

  “It appears that someone, Gubujul, is to be you.”

  The much smaller, slimmer spralaker nodded dolefully. “I would fain still decline the honor, my Lord.”

  Kulakak settled back onto his divan, and the palanquin and its bearers shuddered under his shifting weight. “Ever the modest and reticent servant, Gubujul. Especially when calculating the promise of potential reward against the consequences of possible failure. Such equivocating makes for an advisor who lives long, though not necessarily one of greatest value. Still, you are the best I have. You serve willingly and out of fear: a functional combination. Come back covered in the hair of mersons and the beaks of manyarms and I promise you will swim in glory. The Overturning goes on. As it must,” he concluded pensively. “For all our sakes.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” Further excuses, evasions, and verbal circumlocutions would only risk the Great Lord’s wrath, Gubujul knew. Like it or not, he had just been appointed supreme spralaker commander in the South. While uncertainty was an accepted component of his daily struggle for existence, he believed that somehow he would be able to rise to this new challenge.

  He knew also that if he did not, this would be his last opportunity to enjoy a walk in the forest.

  — XVII —

  Irina had been enchanted by Sandrift, sobered by Shakestone, and impressed by Siriswirll. So it was not unreasonable for her to believe that she had some idea what to expect of Benthicalia.

  She was as wrong as she was overwhelmed.

  When her companions had called it a city, she had envisioned something like Siriswirll, only on a larger scale. She was simply not prepared for the sight that greeted her eyes as the group swam over a last rocky rise and the city came into view. Slammed them was more accurate, since during the preceding days of travel in near darkness they had become accustomed to a much more muted level of illumination.