Why doesn’t it hurt?
She opened her eyes and saw the mangled side of the great predator floating before her, barely an arm’s length away. She blinked as something flashed past, sleek as an arrow, with a gray body and red-tipped fins.
Then another shape, bluish this time, and another, gray striped. The shapes slammed into the horror again and again, tearing off ragged pieces of flesh. The speed of their passing sent ripples down Umira’s bruised and battered skin.
Sharks!
The smaller fish had turned on their enormous, wounded cousin and were eating it alive. The monster hissed and gurgled, dying from a thousand cuts. Separately, each bite was insignificant, but together they were enough to bring down the wounded titan.
The brute tried to flee, but the school swarmed over it: redfins, ravagers, blues, hammerheads, and even a great white or two, all tearing chunks from the huge body, all eating their fill. Not one of the attackers spared even a glance for Umira.
It took the better part of an hour for the school to strip most of the flesh from the carcass. Then the larger sharks moved off, back into the deep, leaving the remains for their smaller brethren.
By that time, Umira, who had lain half-buried in the mud during the whole feeding frenzy, felt recovered enough to swim cautiously back to the surface.
She emerged a dozen yards from the wreck. Shirtless lay unconscious, paler but still breathing. Nissa and Arzu held each other, weeping piteously. They jumped at the sound of the triton splashing toward them. Nissa swung her arm around, a spell on her lips, but then burst out with a cry of sheer joy. “Umira!”
The two mages stood, though the overturned hull rocked precariously.
Nissa offered Umira a hand up. “We thought you were dead.” Umira took her hand and climbed aboard.
“I thought I’d killed you,” Arzu added.
“Or the monster had.”
“Nearly. Both times.”
Both women threw their arms around Umira and hugged her, much to the triton’s surprise.
“Thank you,” Arzu said.
“Yes. Thanks.”
Umira separated herself from them. “I’m glad you survived. Will he?”
“We think so,” Arzu said. “If we can get him to land soon enough.”
“The ship had a boat. I think I spotted it over there, among the wreckage.” Nissa pointed to the west, amid a field of debris. “It’s overturned, but if we’re lucky. . . .”
“We didn’t dare swim to it, because of the sharks.”
Umira smiled, confidence welling up inside. “The sharks won’t bother me.” She dived back in, dragged the boat to them, and together the three of them righted it. The dinghy had suffered some damage, but between them, the two women cobbled together a few spells to mend it.
“If you sail east,” Umira told them, “you should reach the nearest island before dark. I think there is a human outpost there.”
“You’re not coming with us?” Nissa asked.
The triton shook her head.
“Well, here, then,” Nissa said, holding out her open palm.
Umira looked at the glittering objects in the girl’s hand: the two gold pieces from the rift.
“They came to me when I used the metal-summoning spell to bring you that spear,” Nissa explained. “They must have fallen out of Captain Shaw’s . . . When he . . . Take them.”
“It’s the only payment we can offer.”
Umira closed Nissa’s hand around the coins. “I was never interested in gold.”
The three women smiled at each other, and Umira felt a moment of unfamiliar warmth. She helped Nissa and Arzu load Shirtless into the repaired dinghy, raise the sail, and push off. They tacked to the east, aiming for the nearest of the distant island peaks.
Umira watched them sail until she felt sure the three survivors would make it to land.
Then she dived into the waves, returning at last to the sea’s welcoming embrace.
FIN
* * *
SAMPLES OF OTHER STORIES
Here are some samples of other stories by me that you may enjoy.
Don’t forget to read the “About the Story” and “About the Author” sections that follow the samples!
CRIMSON & DRAGONS
~ A Blue Kingdoms Story ~
Stephen D. Sullivan
Is there anything in the multiverse worse than waking up naked and chained to a dungeon wall? I say, Yes: dying before you get to pay back the son-of-a-bitch who put you there.
I intended to make sure that the bastard priest who put me in this position got what he deserved, and in this lifetime, not some future one. Of course, being naked and chained to a dungeon wall, I wasn’t currently in a position to do much about it.
Acting as pin-up girl in some sadist’s twisted fantasy isn’t something I’ve experienced a lot in my many lifetimes, mostly because “death before dishonor” has always been my mantra. Of course, that kind of hard-ass credo is easier for me to follow than it would be for most, death not being a permanent set-back in my case. In situations like this, my peculiar brand of immortality is more of a blessing than a curse. Trouble is, I wasn’t the only one in this jam.
Other women—little more than girls, really—occupied the dungeon with me. We were chained in a line against a damp stone wall, each of us far enough apart from the rest that we couldn’t possibly touch or help each other in any way. I guessed from their pallid skin and soft bodies that the others weren’t going to be much help in getting us out of this predicament.
I hadn’t seen my own body in a mirror since I revived in this new incarnation, but I knew what I’d find; the “gift” from the gods that unhinged me in time also allows me to look more or less the same every time I’m reborn: trim and muscular, pale blue eyes, red hair—shoulder-length in this incarnation—and busty. Somehow, I always end up with big boobs; I figure the gods must like them. And so, judging from the endowment of my cell mates, do pervert clerics.
I assumed it was the priest who’d put me here, as the last thing I remembered before waking up in chains was accepting a drink from him. I really must learn not to accept wine from strange men, even when they drink from the same skin first. Either he had some magic that protected him, or he’d built up an immunity to whatever drug he slipped into the drink. I wondered if my fellow captives—there were five of us, counting me—had fallen prey to a similar fate.
I couldn’t see what I had in common with the other girls, aside from chest size. All had different skin and hair colors; three were human, one an elf. All four looked exhausted and terrified, their hair ragged, their eyes puffy from crying. They slumped against the wall, their chains hanging limply. I was at one end of the line, a girl with short, mousy-brown hair at the other.
I stood and tested the strength of the shackles. Though rusty, they seemed sturdy enough, and the walls were smoothly joined stone. This was no makeshift prison; whoever constructed it knew what they were doing—unfortunately.
“Hey!” I called. “Who’s in charge here?”
“Quiet! He’ll hear you!” said the girl with mousy-brown hair.
“Do you want to be next?” hissed the Elf, though I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Mousy or me.
“Next for what?”
“For the dragon!” the Elf replied.
“H-he took my sister!” the long-haired Brunette, chained next to Mousy, said between sobs. “He just came and took her!” I noticed an empty set of shackles at the start of the line, and I remembered hearing screams just before I woke. I wondered how long ago he had taken the sister—and was she the first victim, or just one in some kind of sick series? “The wall just opened up, and he dragged her through, and . . .”
“And you’ll be next if you don’t shut up,” the Elf shot back. “On second thought, keep talking.”
“Bickering won’t help,” the blonde in the middle of the line said. She looked older and a bit less haggard than the rest. “I’m Princess Rache
lle of Narosh. Who are you?”
“Crimson. Just Crimson.”
“Crimson, how did you get here?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. Last thing I remember was having a friendly drink with this priest, and then next thing I know, I wake up in this shit hole.”
Saying “shit hole” brought my attention to the stench of the place, a wonderful combination of dampness, mold, and human excrement. Some of my companions had not comported themselves with much dignity during their captivity, not that I blamed them. I looked at the wall the Brunette had indicated earlier, but couldn’t see any obvious door. In fact, I didn’t see any way in or out at all, just stone and mortar. Either the room was sealed by magic, or its exit was a secret door constructed by some very clever stonemasons.
“The priest would be Bentano Dracus,” Rachelle said. “He drugged you.”
“Where are we?”
“In the catacombs below Dracus’ church, I think.”
“And how do you know this guy?”
“Dracus was my father’s chief priest when I was a child. Years ago, the church kicked him out for . . . questionable actions. I heard he went to Lemagne and started his own church in an old, abandoned cathedral. I was passing through Lemagne when I was kidnapped. I woke up here.”
“Looks like Dracus’ actions have gotten even more ‘questionable’ in the intervening years.”
“I never did like the way he looked at me when I was a child. I like it even less, now.”
“So, who are the rest of you?” I asked.
“Look,” the Elf replied, “there’s no use getting to know us, because we’re all going to die!”
“I don’t want to die!” the Brunette sobbed.
“Quiet! He’ll hear you!” Mousy added.
“What? You think that shutting up will make this lunatic spare us?” I asked. “You think maybe he’ll get tired of feeding girls to dragons before he gets to you? Forget it! I’ve met guys like this before, and they just keep on killing until someone stops them.”
“Why is he doing this?” the Brunette wailed.
“Power, I think,” Rachelle said. She seemed almost completely calm now, and regal, even in this awful situation. “Bentano Dracus always wanted power.”
“No,” I replied. “People may say they do this kind of thing for power or some other motive—but the only real reason to chain someone up and kill them is because you get off on it. Dracus is no different. Thing is, this time, he picked the wrong victim.”
Read more in “Crimson & Dragons” at better e-book sellers everywhere!
SISTERS IN ARMS
~ A Blue Kingdoms Story ~
Stephen D. Sullivan
1. Captain’s Gambit
The half-ogre stared at Lilani Coralshell’s breasts, but Lia didn’t mind; distracting the enemy’s first mate was a vital part of Captain Marg’s plan.
Lia leaned her chair back on two legs and tipped the bottom of her mug toward the tavern ceiling, savoring the taste of the heady Barbarossan ale as it slid down her throat. The cool froth dulled the swelter of the summer afternoon air and helped her ignore the stink of the overcrowded saloon.
The mountainous half-ogre seated next to Lia and her sister, Rina, continued leering. His bloodshot eyes probed the vast expanses of tan skin showing above, below, and between gaps in the Coralshell sisters’ bejeweled armor. Lia could almost feel his bestial imagination pawing her.
The enemy captain, Ali al Shahar, wasn’t following his first mate’s lead, despite the sisters’ scanty attire. He kept his keen eyes fixed on Marg Twoswords as they parleyed—and he wasn’t looking at Marg’s middle-aged body. Lia had heard of Captain Ali, and clearly he had heard of Marg, mistress of the Silver Pearl.
This one is cagey, Lia thought as she drained her glass, and not easily distracted. But Marg has his measure, I’ll wager. Lia tipped her chair forward, making sure to give the half-ogre a generous view. The brute’s eyes flushed orange with arousal. Lia chanced a quick glance at Rina and, somehow, neither sister laughed.
As Rina fidgeted with the golden strap of her halter, “accidentally” exposing a bit more flesh, Lia pretended to study her drink, while actually sizing up the man sitting opposite Captain Marg.
Ali al Shahar’s appearance did not match his formidable reputation. Yes, he was athletic and handsome, with sea-tanned skin, a trimmed beard, and flashing hazel eyes—just the kind of rogue that Lia normally fancied, in fact. And, yes, he was well dressed. A bejeweled pendant in the shape of a teardrop dangled around his neck, and he wore two rings—one on the middle finger of each hand. The rings, a ruby-topped golden circlet and a platinum band of dolphins surrounding a deep blue stone, looked both ancient and valuable. But Lia had seen plenty of buffed and decked-out mariners in her time; to her, Ali was just another pretty face.
Seeming to sense her scrutiny, the enemy captain stopped talking to Marg for a moment. His hand strayed casually to the golden hilt of his cutlass as he glanced at the younger Coralshell sister. This was no leering appraisal, but the deft assessment of a clever mind.
We can take him, Lia concluded, so long as he doesn’t tumble to our plan. She looked away, pretending not to have noticed Ali’s scrutiny, as the captains returned to their conversation.
Lia and her sister had been sailing on the Silver Pearl for four years, and Marg’s schemes nearly always worked. During that time, Marg Twoswords had fleeced much tougher rams than this Ali—though Lia remained unsure why they needed to deal with him at all, especially a scant month before Marg’s planned retirement.
What did their captain, who usually avoided contact with the men, want with this freemariner? Her ship, the Silver Pearl, was nearly as swift as his Starcutter, and her crew was at least as formidable. Surely they could tackle this mission without matching wits against such a famous seafarer—whether he deserved his reputation or not.
“What do you want from me?” Ali asked Marg.
A chill ran down Lia’s spine; it was as though the Starcutter’s captain had read her thoughts. She took another drink to tamp down the worry.
“I mean, I’m flattered that you’ve invited me here, Captain Twoswords,” Ali continued, “but if you have this map—as you say you do—then why do you need me? Surely a mariner of your renown can handle a simple treasure hunt.”
“You’re right,” Marg said. She leaned over the table, her aging bosom practically spilling out of her bejeweled armor. “Normally I wouldn’t ask for help outside the Sisterhood, but we’re talking about a Khef-Tui island here.”
Marg’s cleavage didn’t seem to distract Ali in the least. He folded his arms across his chest and stared directly into her brown eyes. Lia listened, while being careful not to seem like she was. She knew that though Rina appeared to be flirting with the half-ogre, her sister, too, was paying careful attention.
“Even with a map, the lands of the Khef-Tui are hard to find,” Marg explained. “Their race has been dead a long time; you know that as well as I, Captain. The ancients guarded even their most insignificant outposts with magical wards and diabolical tricks. They didn’t like intruders.”
“No one’s found a new Khef-Tui ruin in ages,” Ali replied, “and most so-called Khef-Tui maps aren’t worth the papyrus they’re painted on. What makes you think this one is real?”
“The Sisterhood has resources most people aren’t privy to,” Marg replied. “My map is genuine, I assure you. What’s more, I know for certain that no one has plundered this island. Can you even imagine the riches of an unspoiled Khef-Tui isle? There’ll be enough loot for both of us to retire—and set up our crews for life as well.”
Now Ali leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “It would be a prize worth winning,” he agreed. “Though I ask again: Why my ship? Why me?”
Marg shrugged. “You have a knack for finding things, Captain al Shahar—treasure especially. Everyone knows that. Plus, you’re the best navigator in the western Azure Sea.”
; Ali frowned; clearly, neither flattery nor matronly sex appeal would win this battle for Marg.
“Why should I trust you?” he asked. “For all I know, this is some Sisterhood plot to lure me and my crew into a trap and take our ship. You’re pirates, after all—no offense.”
“None taken.” Marg’s brown eyes flickered dangerously. “But wouldn’t this be a long line to play just for one ship—even a fast one like the Starcutter?”
“Maybe. But how can you prove your good intentions?”
“I only brought two of my crew with me to parlay,” she said, indicating the sisters.
“And I only brought one.”
“But yours is twice the size of mine.”
A smile flashed across Ali’s bearded face. “And yours are twice as good looking.”
The table lurched slightly, and Lia realized that Ali had kicked the half-ogre in the shin. The brute grunted in shock and stopped staring at the sisters. He glared at Ali for a moment, then, seeming to remember himself, bobbed his head deferentially. “Sorry, Cap’n,” he muttered. His ogreish eyes went deep green as his rough-hewn face grew deadly serious.
Marg laughed, a sharp, boisterous outburst. “I was beginning to think you hadn’t noticed, Captain. I did, indeed, bring two of my comeliest buccaneers with me. You can’t blame a girl for trying to even things out just a bit.”
“With the Sisterhood, the odds are never even,” Ali replied.
Again, a momentary flash of anger in Marg’s eyes. “I’ll give you the map, then,” she offered. “You’ll be navigating anyway, so your ship should take the lead.”
“That might be . . . acceptable,” he said.
Marg slowly brushed a stray lock of wavy auburn hair out of her eyes. “Then we have a deal.”
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