Oshenerth (16 page)

Hovering a finger-length above Chachel’s head, Glint added his own judgment. “I can regrow an arm. I can’t regrow information.” For emphasis he turned dark blue and flashed ripples of red.

The gill flaps at his neck spread wide, Jorosab looked from merson to manyarm, then spoke through clenched lips. “It is hard not to go to the aid of those whose shrieks fill my ears, but you speak the truth out of different mouths. We need to get back and tell the others.” Rising from atop the brain coral where he had been lying, he turned to go—and nearly swam into the giant triton triggerfish that had appeared behind him.

Mounted on a simple woven saddle atop the triton was a single spralaker.

It was difficult to say who was more surprised: the enemy scout, or the trio who had been scouting the enemy. Of course, as far as their respective positions were concerned, from the startled spralaker’s point of view the definitions were reversed. Recovering swiftly from the initial shock of their presence, the red and white spralaker nudged his mount and whirled to escape.

Jorosab’s bow and arrows were still slung across his back. So were Chachel’s spears. The hunter had to make an instant decision: he could draw and throw his knife, but it would have to be a perfect cast. Quick and powerful, too, before the intervening water slowed its momentum. Or he could throw …

Even flattened out, no cuttlefish had as hydrodynamic a shape as a squid. On the other hand, a manyarm in pursuit could change direction whereas a thrown weapon was committed to a single course. By throwing Glint instead of a spear, Chachel gave his companion just enough of a boost to let the cuttlefish overtake the fleeing spralaker. Extending his two hunting tentacles to their greatest extent, Glint plucked the enemy scout right off his mount.

Both adversaries were about the same size. In a one-on-one brawl Glint would have had the advantage of speed and agility, the spralaker those of strength and natural weaponry. But there was no chance and no need of such a fight. Chachel and Jorosab arrived almost immediately after Glint had neatly wrangled the armored soldier.

Well-trained and dedicated, the spralaker’s mount uttered a Piscean curse and turned to charge the mersons. With triangular front teeth as long as a person’s thumb and a thick, powerful body, the ferocious triggerfish was a formidable opponent capable of inflicting serious damage. Chachel’s spear went right through the attacker’s open mouth and past the saw-like teeth to emerge from its body near the right side of the tail fin. The impaled triggerfish fought and writhed on the hunter’s weapon for quite awhile. Chachel ignored its death throes. The spralaker’s mount was as good as dinner.

As for the scout itself, it found itself cornered and unable to flee. Raising both arms, it did its best to threaten its captors. “Kill me go ahead why don’t you maybe you can’t. Touch me and I open your veins!”

“I think not,” murmured Chachel. “You’re coming with us. There’s a council and a shaman who’ll want to ask you some questions.”

Backed into a corner in the coral, the combative spralaker held his ground. “You’ll suck my flesh anyway, so why should I tell any of you anything?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.” Chachel was careful to keep out of range of the spralaker’s arms, weapons that were considerably more lethal than the triggerfish’s teeth. “It’s apparent your people are going to overrun Siriswirll anyway, and then probably kill me and my friends. So why not prolong your life? Maybe you’ll find a chance to escape, or your superiors will work a prisoner exchange on your behalf.”

Jorosab looked at him sharply. “Whose side are you on, hermit?”

Some of the tension went out of the spralaker. “Yes so, you speak correct. Why not then converse? It will be last time to see pulp faces of your kind twist and deform.” He lowered his weapons. “I go with you freely then because I will enjoy final moments.”

After tying its arms and legs, they put the spralaker in Jorosab’s carryall, which when emptied of supplies was just capacious enough to accommodate the prisoner. Below, the battle for Siriswirll continued to rage. A last look back showed the inhabitants maintaining their position behind the temporary wall they had constructed. How much longer they could hold out against the relentless pressure none of the three scouts from Sandrift could tell. But at least for the moment, mersons and manyarms still had control of the battlefield.

Under normal conditions, Chachel mused as he and his companions swam in hard silence for the distant encampment, the spralakers should have given up by now, or fallen to chaos among themselves. But as the valiant rainbow runner Zesqu had intimated, these were no ordinary spralakers.

What was driving them? What power was guiding them and holding them together as a unified fighting force? Having succeeded in ravaging an entire town at Shakestone, an accomplishment beyond their wildest dreams, any sensible group of spralakers would have withdrawn to savor their victory and compose perverse ballads of triumph. Instead, they had moved immediately to attack a second, much larger community. It made no sense. Oxothyr was right for certain: forces were at work here that were as malevolent as they were abnormal.

He found his thoughts drifting again to the changeling. The demon changeling.

Hauling their valuable prisoner, the trio succeeded in making their way back along intervening reefs without being seen. No other hardshell scouts were encountered and the fish they met proved indifferent. Spralakers were possessed of many skills, but a loud voice was not among them. Their prisoner might cry out, but he was unlikely to be heard.

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 arms 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.