Oshenerth

by Alan Dean Foster

  Irina readied herself for whatever the shaman was going to say when he broke away from the ammonites with whom he had been conversing and swam over to rejoin them. Beside her, Glint stiffened. They were quickly joined by Chachel, Poylee, Sathi, Tythe, and the stolid Jorosab. The mage eyed each of them in turn.

  “We have come a long way together, my friends. We have suffered together, and triumphed together. Now we face a set of circumstances more daunting and desperate than any that have gone before. The city is collapsing in upon itself. Soon the siphons of its defenders will be incapable of expelling water and their arms too weak to fling spears. Before that happens we must act.” With one arm, he gestured in the direction of the Tornal, who had ceased talking among themselves and were moving slowly to reform their familiar line.

  “I have been given permission to try something. As outsiders, we are allowed somewhat more freedom of action than the city’s inhabitants. The Tornal have charged them with sustaining the defense of the community to the last hand or tentacle. That is not surprising.” Suckered arms traced cryptic patterns in the softly lit water. “We, however, swim under no such restrictions.”

  The shaman’s words hinted at where he was leading. It was his unblinking stare, however, that revealed to Irina his intentions. These he soon confirmed with words. She felt a shiver pass through her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the surrounding water.

  “At this particular time of year,” he continued, “there exist some distance from here potential allies who could make a significant contribution to the defense of Benthicalia. Unfortunately, they have no interest in socializing. They prefer the solitary life, and tend to keep to themselves. Except in one certain place, at this particular time of the year. But if they could be persuaded, this one time, to lend assistance, I believe they would make all the difference.”

  “Who is so persuasive as you, esteemed shaman?” Jorosab exclaimed admiringly.

  “At least one or two others, I hope. I cannot go. I must stay and do what I can do help defend the city. If these others of whom I speak agree to help, it will do no good if they arrive too late to find anything left worth preserving.” His great glistening eyes roamed over his silent, attentive audience.

  “Those most suited to this desperate work must be the swiftest of swimmers and most skilled at avoiding detection. There is no knowing how many spralaker patrols they will have to avoid in order to slip safely clear of the city and into the depths beyond. Since they cannot allow themselves to be slowed by an excess of supplies they must also be self-reliant and able to feed themselves with whatever they encounter as they travel. They must be used to journeying on their own.” His scrutiny finally came to an end—facing Chachel and Glint. Irina was not surprised, for all that she wished it could have been otherwise.

  The choice was easy enough, she knew. Inevitable, even. Who better to attempt a risky dash through spralaker lines than the pair of exceptional hunters? But asking them to be persuasive of others, let alone apparently apathetic potential allies? True, Glint could be amusing, and the cuttlefish could hold a conversation with anyone. But convincing? She wasn’t so sure. As for Chachel, well, a penchant for the non-verbal and antisocial were not qualities one often associated with a skilled diplomat.

  Since the notion had readily occurred to her it was not surprising Oxothyr had already thought of it.

  “This is Oultm.” As the shaman edged to one side, he revealed hovering behind him a much smaller octopus. Glowing pale pink spotted with azure, he was the same size as Glint. Small holes showed in the upper edges of his tentacles where jewelry had been removed. The octopod had stripped down for the journey to come.

  The mage turned back to Chachel and Glint. “Keep him safe. He speaks many dialects and often intercedes for the Tornal with visiting travelers from afar. Now it is his turn to travel. The Tornal tell me that if he cannot convince these others to help, then there is no one in Benthicalia or all the southern reefs who can.”

  “A talker, eh?” Glint jetted over to the hovering envoy. “I’ll try not to bore you.”

  “You already have,” declared the diplomat primly, curling his arms close around him.

  Another might have been offended. Not Glint. He simply swam a slow circle around the octopod, inspecting him from every angle. “No healed wounds. No missing suckers. Mantle unmarred by scars. Not a fighter, then.”

  “Only with words.” Oultm pivoted to meet the cuttlefish’s eyes. “Keep me alive and perhaps together we can do something to help my poor city.”

  “Sure.” Glint jetted back to rejoin Chachel. “And if you fail, your presence will ease the burden of finding food on the way back.”

  “Let’s not begin this treacherous trek in quarrel,” Chachel admonished his streamlined companion.

  Though flashing red, Glint seemed amenable. “As you wish. I can wait until later.”

  “Then it is settled.” Spreading his arms wide, Oxothyr came forward to embrace all three of them at once. “The hunters will ensure the safety of our emissary, and he will endeavor to sway our potential allies. Be aware as you interact with them,” he cautioned as he backed off, “that this time of year they are as likely to eat you as to engage in extended conversation.”

  “We’ll try to keep our chat short then,” Glint commented blithely.

  There was little time to spend on words of encouragement and offerings of hope. Poylee proved more reluctant than anyone to take leave of the travelers, even offering to accompany them. Saving Chachel the trouble of making such a decision, Oxothyr firmly quashed the notion.

  “Even three is two too many for such a desperate business,” he explained. “The fewer in number who go out, the less likely they are to be detected.”

  Fighting to keep from sobbing, Poylee was unwilling to grant the logic of the octopod’s argument. “Then why not send only two? Or just the lone envoy?”

  Oxothyr could have declined to explain himself again and no one else would have questioned his judgment. But he was not that kind of shaman, to retreat behind an impenetrable aura of omnipotence. Though he had eight arms, he needed only three to tick off his reasons.

  “First, a diplomat is not necessarily a fighter. In this case, obviously. Second, it would not be proper for Oultm to present himself without at least some kind of an escort. And lastly, it being critical that those whose assistance we seek be convinced that the well-being of all is at stake, it is vital that at least one merson go along to add the weight of his people’s involvement to the argument.”

  The explanation was enough to subdue Poylee, if not to please her. She had to settle for embracing an unresponsive Chachel to such a degree that others had to pull her, albeit gently, away. As for Glint, the cuttlefish was farewelled with equal fervor by a female of his kind. And another. Then a few more. And then several more still. Looking on, a surprised Irina decided that she did not really know the cuttlefish any better than she did his merson cohort.

  Reflecting the gravity of their mission, they were given a ritual send-off that was hopeful but restrained. One at a time, each member of the Tornal ceremonially entwined tentacles with Glint and Oultm, and tentacle to arm with Chachel. The two hunters were provided with the finest, sharpest weapons in the city’s armory, including bone spears with costly metal tips. Preserved, odorless, high-energy food was supplied in special low-drag carryalls.

  Their actual departure was quick. Leave-taking took place via a small opening at the base of an unprepossessing section of south wall. The spralakers would expect anyone trying to flee Benthicalia to swim first for the surface, and if that route was blocked, to then head in a direction opposite the two besieging armies. That was where the majority of outlying spralaker-ray squadrons could be expected to focus their efforts. The area most likely to go unpatrolled was the ground; the one part of the realworld where spralakers and not mersons or manyarms held sway.

  The minimizing of light being critical to slipping past enemy sentries unobs
erved, Glint and Oultm reduced their personal bioluminescence to the least amount possible. Chachel buried the small but bright glow-globes he carried inside the tightly woven pack slung across his back.

  Then, having made their final farewells, they embarked on the desperate journey.

  O O O

  Once outside the city, in the absence of adequate illumination they had to feel their way across the rocky surface. Chachel let Glint lead the way, since the cuttlefish’s sensitivity to changes in water pressure could detect obstacles more efficiently than the touch of merson fingers.

  Despite the care they had taken with their departure, on two occasions they encountered spralaker patrols. Once while they were hugging the ground, but in time to extinguish their own weak lights and let the enemy pass by. The second time they were nearly caught off-guard by a quartet of bull rays transporting more than a dozen spralaker fighters. Instead of stopping, the anxious trio kept moving through the darkness. While the more acute vision of the two cephalopods allowed them to find their way forward, a silently grumbling Chachel was reduced to holding onto a couple of Glint’s trailing tentacles so that he would not lose track of his companions.

  They were three days out from Benthicalia before the hunters felt it was safe enough to return both internal and external lights to full strength. A nervous Oultm protested the decision, but in this instance he was overruled.

  “You take care of the talk,” Chachel told the smaller octopod firmly, “and Glint and I will take care of you.”

  The edgy envoy kept pivoting on his axis, peering into the surrounding dark water with unashamed unease. “I still think we’re too close to the city to be advertising our presence so.”

  Glint flashed indifference. “Bring forth the light or proceed in darkness as you please, beak-walker. I prefer to make it easy to see my companion, and for him to see me. The deep is no place to lose track of one’s friends.”

  “It’s no place to boast of one’s presence, either.” Oultm gave a visible shudder. “There are dangers out here away from the city greater than those posed by marauding spralakers.”

  This time Chachel spoke up before the cuttlefish could reply. “Glint and I are hunters, emissary. We have spent many days and many trips by ourselves in places villagers would fear to swim. We know the currents and the darkness. They are old friends.” He hefted the beautifully wrought spear held loosely in his webbed left hand. “Sharks are not the only ones who can hunt successfully at night.”

  Still dubious, Oultm dribbled out a short spurt of bubbles. “Well, that gifted country shaman of yours certainly seemed to have confidence in you. I suppose I can do no less.”

  “You always have a choice.” Raising an arm, Glint pointed back through the blackness at the route they had already traversed. “Benthicalia lies several days swim in that direction. Good luck. We will make do without you.”

  Adjusting his siphon, Oultm shot closer to the cuttlefish. The two cephalopods continued swimming close and in parallel. “You think I am afraid.”

  “No.” Glint let a ripple of red race along the length of his soft body. “I know you are afraid. I know this because I am afraid, and my limb- and eye-challenged friend Chachel is afraid. And if we are afraid, it would be all out of proportion normal if a puny sputtering babble-beak like yourself was not.”

  “Then we have something else in common.” Verifying his credentials as a diplomat, Oultm allowed every one of the cuttlefish’s insults to pass unnoticed.

  “‘Else’?” Had he possessed one, Glint would have arched an eyebrow.

  “We all desire the salvation of Benthicalia, the great burden with which all of us have been charged.”

  For once Glint had no ready comeback. The trio swam on in silence.

  Foraging proved less of a problem than Oxothyr had feared. The rocky plain and deep-sea corals were virtual larders, flush with edible mollusks of all kinds. There were slow-moving fish to be speared, soft growths for Chachel to chew (which his wholly carnivorous companions declined to sample), peculiar but tasty glowing lifeforms to be swallowed whole.

  There were also innumerable small spralakers whose flesh would have been a welcome addition to their haphazard meals. Under normal conditions all three travelers would have feasted on the foul-mouthed but otherwise harmless hardshells. But despite the distance they had come from Benthicalia, there was no way of knowing how far the northerner’s patrols ranged. The last thing any of the travelers wanted was for some shrieking small meal to alert their enemies. It was not as if they were lacking for nourishment.

  Notwithstanding his lofty standing, Oultm proved himself a perfectly adequate scavenger. From time to time he would wander off by himself, only to return soon thereafter with something fleshy and edible. Glint was faster and Chachel stronger, and both of them had more experience. By pooling their efforts they had no need to dip into the stores they had brought with them from Benthicalia.

  It was Glint who first spotted the approaching line of blue lights. Instantly on guard, Chachel gripped his spear a little tighter as he went vertical in the water to scrutinize the oncoming glow. Though the line of luminance wavered slightly from side to side, the lights of which it was composed stayed in single file.

  “Not rays.” He grunted uncertainly. “Phosphorescent salps? Or some other communal organism?” He looked around unhappily. Comprised of undulating sand and mud, the surrounding terrain offered little in the way of cover.

  “Can’t tell.” Rising higher, Glint lifted a pair of tentacles. “Whatever it is, it’s not putting out much of a scent.”

  Chachel had dropped so low that his feet were kicking up mud and miniscule particles of organic matter. Whatever was generating the light, it was going to pass directly over them.

  “If I might …” Oultm began. They never had a chance to consider the diplomat’s opinion, because within minutes it was raining spralakers. Dozens of them, the majority as big or bigger than Glint.

  They came parachuting down off the sides and back of the biggest oarfish the hunters had ever seen. A good seventy feet in length, its body was remarkably flattened, forming a gigantic silvery, weaving ribbon. Narrow, wide open jaws sucked in whatever prey they encountered. Though just a fish, its great size made it as intimidating as any sea serpent—another denizen of the deep for which it was often mistaken in the seas of Irina’s world.

  The spralakers who had been clinging to its back and flanks had kept their own internal and claw-held lights turned off so as not to attract attention. This ploy had certainly deceived the trio of emissaries, who from below had been able to detect only the normal blue bioluminescence running along the oarfish’s length.

  The instant they identified the actual threat, the travelers scattered. All they had to do to evade the surprise attack was get up off the ground and into the water column where the weak-swimming hardshells could not follow. The only problem was that not all of the attacking spralakers let go of their oarfish transport. At least half remained attached. Their multiple legs allowed them to maintain a firm grip on the ribbon-like spine of their mount while still unlimbering their weapons.

  The patrol’s strategy was immediately apparent. Have the oarfish loop above the travelers. If Chachel or his companions made a break for shallower water, spear or shoot them as they came up. Defeating that tactic was simple: all the emissaries had to do was stay below the circling oarfish. But that allowed those spralakers who had already dropped from their weaving mount to attack the emissaries beside or below them. Close-quarter combat was soon joined.

  Glint and Chachel swam into battle without saying a word. There was neither need nor reason for them to waste energy on unnecessary conversation. As veteran hunting partners, they had long ago been obliged to develop stratagems for mutual defense. These stood them in good stead now.

  Spear aimed outward, Chachel held his place in the water column while Glint circled overhead, tentacles fully extended and both bows notched. Exhibiting acumen if not bold
ness, Oultm promptly assumed a stance tail to tail with the cuttlefish. Facing in opposite directions, the two cephalopods were positioned to cope with an attack from any direction, including from above. Rising as one, the three armed and wary travelers commenced a slow ascent from the sandy bottom.

  But every time they looked, every time they shifted direction slightly, the way up to freedom was blocked by a silvery flash of spralaker-riding oarfish.

  So intent was Chachel on finding a potential escape route that he nearly failed to notice the green and red spralaker that, legs churning furiously, came flying at him out of the darkness. By the time he could react to its leap, it was already inside the killing point of his spear. Each powerful claw held a curved blade high. By bringing both weapons down and toward one another at the same time, the hardshell warrior was perfectly capable of cutting off a merson’s head.

  Keeping a firm grip on his spear and using the point to ward off another spralaker who was cutting at his legs, Chachel used his free hand to pull his knife from its woven sheath. As the soaring soldier descended toward him, the hunter struck upward. The short, sharp blow was delivered swiftly.

  Whether delivered by merson, manyarm, or spralaker, wide sweeping swings and hacks were of minimal efficacy when fighting underwater. The broader the stroke, the more the intervening water would slow it down and reduce its effectiveness. That was why, for example, no manyarm enveloped its quarry unless it had already been caught, and tentacles seeking prey always lashed out straight and never in a curve. It was why a long knife or short sword was efficient, but never a saber. To slay underwater one was best advised to stab, not slice.

  The point of Chachel’s well-honed bone blade went straight up into the softer underside of the leaping spralaker, passing through the chelae and into its brain. Severing the relevant nerves caused its claws to lock in striking position but no longer able to strike. Bringing both knees up to his chest, Chachel kicked his dead adversary off the blade even as he was searching for another hardshell to kill.