Oshenerth (33 page)

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 boldness, 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.

He didn’t have to look far. The mêlée raged around him. Oultm and Glint both had their own short swords out, the spralakers having closed too tight to allow the cuttlefish to make any further use of his bows and arrows. Thus far all the dark blood swirling around the combatants belonged to the attackers. Chachel feared that if the fight continued for much longer that was likely to change. There were too many of the hardshells. Unless he and his companions could get farther off the sea floor and gain enough height to make full use of their superior mobility, the likelihood of them completing their mission, much less seeing Benthicalia or Sandrift again, was small. If only that damned oarfish …!

“Glint!” he roared. “Cover me! I’m going up.” Before the embattled cuttlefish could respond, Chachel was already kicking hard and ascending.

Anticipating that sooner or later their quarry must try to make a break for open water, spralaker riders were waiting for him.

Several dozen still clung to the back and sides of the huge oarfish. Illuminated by the lights they carried or had attached to their bodies as well as by those of the oarfish itself, they were easy to pick out in the dark water. Woven double-pouches holding hundreds of short throwing blades and curved knives were slung on either side of the willowy, flattened fish like elongated saddlebags. There was only one way to avoid the manifold riders and their lethal arsenal of weapons. There was only one possible angle of attack that would make it difficult for them to strike at him as Chachel came near.

Ignoring the added danger and taking a deep breath, Chachel swam directly for the head.

Luminous, convex blue eyes wider than his face gazed blankly back at him as, spear fully extended from his right arm, he came rocketing toward the front of the oarfish. Detecting the fast-closing non-hardshell swimmer, the spralaker riders took aim with their various blades as their monster mount snapped at him. The oarfish was not fast, but it was surprisingly quick for such a large predator. In addition to avoiding the mouthful of long, needle-like teeth that could swallow him whole, Chachel had to deal with the efforts of the spralakers on its back. Spinning its way through the water, one accurately-flung, palm-sized metal scythe just missed taking off his left foot.

Failing to skewer him on its furiously gnashing teeth, the enraged oarfish twisted sharply to its right. This whipped a section of its heavy body directly toward Chachel, allowing the spralakers on its back to let loose with a broadside of cutting edge weaponry at close range. Some of it he was able to dodge. Only skills honed from years of solitary hunting or later, in tandem with Glint, allowed him to deflect the oncoming spears, knives, arrows, and throwing blades. His own spear was a whirlwind in the water, a white blur the hunter manipulated with a skill that to his chattering, howling, and increasingly frustrated attackers seemed to border on the supernatural. They had no way of knowing that he was in fact manipulating the water as well.

Leaping from its perch near the tail of the oarfish as it snapped around to try and deal the maddeningly evasive merson a stunning blow, one spralaker flung itself straight at the hunter. Claws extended with every intention of ripping out the merson’s gills, the hardshell flew straight at his face. Noting the attack at the last possible instant, Chachel strained his remaining calf muscle as he kicked sharply upward. Claws snapping, the weak-swimming spralaker passed just beneath him. Drawing his knees up toward his chest, the elusive hunter simultaneously thrust straight down with his principle weapon. Aided by the sudden density of water a murmuring Chachel put behind the spear butt, it went right through the spralaker’s shell to pierce its brain. Flailing claws stilled as the multiple feathery legs ceased swimming.

Grabbing onto the body of the dead hardshell and using it as a shield, Chachel kicked as hard as he could toward the oarfish, which had curved back to make another pass at him. As the great fish drew near, its spralaker riders let loose with another fusillade of lethal weapons. All of them glanced off the dead spralaker’s thick shell or stuck harmlessly into its lifeless body. When the oarfish opened its jaws wide to once again snap at the hunter, its teeth clamped down instead on the spralaker corpse.