The silver squadron of greater Sandrift shot past her, the speed and force of their passing knocking her off-balance and nearly causing her to drop her spear, and she found that she was cheering, too.
— XII —
Though they shot through the water too fast for her to make an accurate count, Irina estimated there were between thirty and forty of the silver-sided attack squid. Slimmer and longer than any cephalopodan species she had yet seen, they moved like rockets. In its tentacles each fighter held half a dozen short, sickle-shaped knives.
They tore through the slowly descending rain of armed spralakers like a spray of shrapnel. Razor-sharp blades sliced cleanly through carapaces, eyestalks, and limbs. Clumsy while free-falling, the enemy tried fight back. The silver squid were far too fast and maneuverable for them. They would dart in, strike, and jet clear before even the most agile spralaker could land a counterblow.
Half the squadron went to the aid of the village. The others, having wrought sufficient havoc among the remaining descending foe, now sped downward. Zipping and zooming above the field of battle like so many multi-armed dive bombers, they unleashed the secret weapon with which Oxothyr had equipped them prior to the departure from Sandrift.
Overhead, Irina found herself frowning as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. She glanced uncertainly at the shaman. “Trepang?”
When an octopus nods, his entire body bobs. “Through the application of a small spell I have enhanced the natural abilities of those that have been brought with us.” His voice was thick with satisfaction. “Guts can be useful.”
Irina let her gaze drop downward again. In addition to their half dozen of curved blades, each squid carried in its remaining arms a pair of the forearm-size, rubbery trepang. Known more evocatively in her world as beche-de-mer, when prodded or irritated trepang ejected not only their inner organs, which were easily regrown, but also white strands known as the tubules of Cuvier. On contact with water outside the body, expelled guts and tubules alike expanded and became—sticky. Very, very sticky. A threatened trepang could eject more than enough to entangle and distract most pursuing predators. As enchanted by Oxothyr, they now became veritable fountains of goo.
It was not pretty.
As the squid sped past above them, one spralaker soldier after another found itself entangled in the incredibly adhesive innards being forcefully ejected by the mindless conscripted trepang. Thanks to Oxothyr’s literally gut-level enchantment, expulsion of the sticky insides of the prolific bottom-feeders did not stop. Instead, they continued to spew without pause.
One by one, individual spralaker fighters found themselves bound up in seemingly endless strands of repulsive slime. Legs were lashed together. Claws that could grind rock found themselves inextricably stuck to the tops and sides of hard-shelled armor. Eyestalks ended up adhering to mouths or undersides, ruining vision. Knives and throwing stones became glued to the very arms that were supposed to wield them. When one stumbling gut-trussed spralaker bumped into another, they ended up stuck together. Soon pairs, then trios, eventually dozens found themselves caught up in an ever-expanding gummy quagmire of gluey white strands.
The stymied masses of spralakers made easy targets for the revitalized soldiers of both towns, who converged on them with spears thrusting and blades a-butchering. Similar scenes of slaughter played out within Siriswirll itself. Emerging from their acid-attacked but still mostly intact homes and public buildings, tentative citizens found spralakers pinned to walls, glued to roofs, and dangling from towers. In place of the traditional weapons that had been commandeered by the town’s soldiers, household utensils proved more than adequate for executing invaders unable to fight back.
Taken by surprise with this new weapon and unable to find a way to counter it, the remaining spralakers finally broke and fled. Led by their charismatic red-hued commander, many tried to escape by scuttling around behind the town. Clinging to the steep incline on its far side, they resolved they would be better positioned to defend themselves. Trouble was, they couldn’t reach the slope. The same relentless upwelling that protected Siriswirll’s rear from attack now forced any fleeing enemy seeking its perceived safety back to the field of battle. Many spralakers who had hoped to find refuge in the depths were swept off the rocks and flung into or over the town by the powerful surge. Feeble swimmers at best, they were quickly picked off by the much more agile mersons and manyarms.
Not all were slain. Some escaped the attentions of the defenders through sheer force of numbers. Yet even those who managed to flee the field of battle were not safe.
As she watched the disorganized retreat, Irina thought she could just make out a distant, furious buzzing. It rose and fell erratically. More than anything, it reminded her of the soft hum of the laser drill in the office where she worked. The shaman explained.
“Shark frenzy.” Oxothyr’s tone was one of quiet gratification. He nodded northward. “Even as we speak the largest of the sharptooths are finding satisfaction.” An arm gestured down toward the rapidly calming battlefield. “Soon the smaller ones will risk coming here in search of still more food. There will be many and they will linger, as there is much to keep them occupied.”
If anything, the mage’s prediction turned out to be understated. In less than an hour the mersons and manyarms had abandoned the field to hundreds of small sharks. Whitetip, blacktip, lemon, leopard—arriving like a pack of stripped-down hyenas, they descended upon the carnage, ravenously consuming with equal relish not only fleshy body parts but bones and shells. Muttering their irritation, they nevertheless gave way whenever a live soldier happened by and momentarily interrupted their glorious feed. Of the customary hostility that existed between merson, manyarm, and shark, on this day there was none. In the presence of such an abundance of trouble-free fodder, traditional enmity was set aside.
On occasion disagreement did raise its scavenging head over possession of a body, mersons and manyarms being as fond of spralaker flesh as any shark. These isolated disputes were quickly and harmlessly resolved, with the grumbling sharks invariably conceding as they moved off to plunder another corpse.
Victory having left behind a real prize in the form of so much food, and a wealth of food being always an excuse for a celebration, the day’s triumph was celebrated that night with a gala the likes of which the town had not experienced in quite some time. Siriswirll was suffused with so much music, dancing, song, and effusive expressions of unconstrained joy that even normally shy nocturnal reef dwellers were drawn to the lights and laughter. For one evening even the tastiest fish were not at risk of encountering net or knife, not even those colored silver or red. At any other time they would be candidates ripe for filleting. Tonight they swam freely with and enjoyed the company of those who would usually see them only as prey.
In contrast to the dionystic frenzy of Colloth, Irina observed, the victory celebration was more about amusement than reproduction. Merriment took the place of unbridled passion. It was just as exciting, but considerably less tiring.
Chachel viewed the exuberant festivities from a distance. Having finally succeeded in losing the persistent Poylee in the maze of buildings, he settled down to rest inside an empty passageway between two small towers. From there he could observe in solitude and with cool detachment the frenetic partying and over-imbibing of thick, heavy, intoxicating liquids. Such wastrelhood was not for him; none of it. To take pleasure in such revelry he would have to let himself go—and he never let himself go. There might be a shark lurking nearby, waiting to extract revenge for killings perpetrated last year. Or a wayward merson, jealous of his hunting ability. Or minions of the dark shadow that always seemed close at hand and ready to strike but forever just out of reach whenever he flailed at them from the depths of his oft-unsettled sleep.
Taking leave of the empty passageway with a desultory sniff, he turned and swam with steady strokes toward the west end of Siriswirll. The structures he passed were deserted and dark, lit only fi
tfully by the moonlight that filtered down through the mirrorsky. Everyone had gathered in the town center to participate in, or at least to watch, the grand carnival. There could be found food, spice, entertainment, and the company of others. Who would seek deliberately to avoid that?
The one merson who chose to do so strained to kick more forcefully as he drew near the westernmost edge of the settlement. Here the windowless, westward-facing flanks of buildings sloped inward at an angle that allowed the powerful upwelling from the depths to rise up and over their roofs and disperse harmlessly above the rest of the town. He did not turn away as the irresistible power of the deep ocean current began to tug at his face and body. To the hunter, the steady pummeling was a form of rejuvenation, reminding him of who he was and what he had suffered. Subjecting oneself to such flagellation was an uncommon vice.
So he was more than a little startled to discover he was not alone.
Immersed in the full force of the upwelling, the instantly recognizable shape stuck out over the very edge of the precipice. Powerful arms, even eight of them, would not be sufficient to allow Oxothyr to hold such a position for very long, but the shaman had secured himself to the site with something more than mere muscle.
The body of even the least adept manyarm could generate striking changes of color and pattern. Only a master of exceptional chromatophoric skill (and not a little magic, Chachel reflected) could command light that clung.
From the pulsating red-green glow that enveloped the shaman like fog around a mountain, tiny tendrils of pure radiance extended outward in numerous directions. Like miniature luminescent tentacles, they gripped the surrounding rock. Nothing grew there. It was impossible for even the most determined mollusk or anemone to maintain a hold in the face of the relentless current that roared up and over the edge. But the glow-fingers of Oxothyr found places to grasp; holes in the weathered stone, projections of jagged rock, and long-dead coral.
Straining, kicking as hard as he could with both his whole leg and his prosthetic, a curious Chachel strove to reach the mage. The surge threatened to tear off everything from the strip of material that covered his loins to the patch over his left eye. Of the shaman’s manyarm famuli there was no sign. Their master must have granted them permission to join in the revels—or ordered them to do so, Chachel decided as he fought against the current. Abruptly, he found himself swimming into a small area of unexpected calm. The powerful rip vanished and he found it easy to move forward. In the lee of the luminous haze cast by the meditating scholar, the current had absented itself.
Without having looked in the hunter’s direction and continuing to stare out into the darkness of the deep ocean, the shaman murmured politely, “Good evening, Chachel. One solitary thinker finds another, I see. It is always so.”
Chachel moved to hover alongside the mage. A finger-length too far to the left and he found himself once more subject to the full force of the upwelling. A finger-length closer to the pulpy, bulbous body brought him back into the shaman’s aura of aqueous tranquility. The hunter did not question it. He was content to benefit from the marvel.
“I don’t do very much thinking, venerable shaman. I find it slows my ability to react.”
In the near darkness, with the jostle of unrestrained revelry forming a noisy backdrop, one great eye focused on the stolid merson. “Hunter, you think more than you think, I think. No matter.” The eye turned away, to join its counterpart in gazing out at the unimaginable immensity that was the open ocean. “It is left to me to think for all. Sometimes,” the brown mantle seemed to sag in upon itself slightly, “sometimes the burden grows heavy.” A flicker of amusement played around the edge of his beak. “For one who is without bones, particularly heavy.”
“You are the most knowledgeable of manyarms and wisest of the wise,” Chachel reminded him gravely.
The sac-like body rippled, turning pale gold with black hieroglyphs. “What I know is scarcely a diatom more than nothing, hunter. My far-reaching ignorance drives me to study. It compels me to learn. It is a curse. The emptiness inside my mind rivals the one out there.” Sweeping up and out in a wide arc, an arm indicated the vastness before them.
Merson and manyarm were silent for a while, until Chachel murmured, “I know why I am here, at this spot, now. Crowds of others make me uncomfortable. But what about you?”
Oxothyr did not hesitate. “Staring at nothing can sometimes be a most effective way of focusing one’s thoughts. In the depth of night, landlords of the peculiar rise from the deeps. Occasionally the persistent can catch a glimpse of them. Out there away from the warm and well-lit reefs reside stranger things, reclusive hunter, than the mind of merson or manyarm can imagine.”
Maintaining his position behind the shaman’s shielding bulk, Chachel joined him in gazing out into the open obsidian ocean. It was not entirely black. Flickerings of light manifested themselves; pinpoints of color that twinkled and beckoned, tempting him to swim out, to follow, to identify. He knew better. He did not need the shaman to tell him that there were creatures who dwelt in the depths that could swallow a merson whole.
“What kind of things, Oxothyr?” Unlike the intimidated majority, Chachel felt no compunction about making familiar use of the shaman’s name.
The glyphs on the mage’s skin shifted and flowed, though there were none present to read them. “Beings that look like stone but are alive. Creatures of dream and nightmare. Teeth that seem to have no body behind them. Great beauty that can also kill.” Once again the golden eye shifted around to peer at the attentive merson. “Looking at them, you feel as if your head is exploding.”
“You have seen such phantasms?” Chachel asked uncertainly.
The shaman sighed. “Truth be told, mostly in my visions. That does not make them any less real. Just like the coldness I have been feeling.” The one arm not holding onto the edge gestured backward, toward the rowdy celebration that filled the center of town. “I should be there, not here. I enjoy music and dancing, good food and entertainment, as much as the next manyarm. Instead I find myself in this lonely, current-swept place, contemplating the great emptiness, thinking too much, and occasionally shivering with a chill whose source I cannot fathom.”
“I am sorry for you, Oxothyr.” Showing none of the hesitation many of his acquaintances would have exhibited, Chachel reached out with his right arm and encircled part of the shaman’s body. The soft skin and the flesh beneath was all but weightless in his palm, like a jellyfish that had donned clothing. Where he made contact, the skin changed from brown to indigo “I wish I could do something.”
“Beware making offers you may have occasion to regret, hunter. The world shifts around us in ways I can sense but not yet understand. For the spralakers to attack established towns like Splitrock and Siriswirll is unprecedented. Something has driven them to do so. We must find out what, before every town on the western reef line finds itself under assault. Unfortunately, as we have recently seen, any of the foe taken prisoner finds ways, often inventive, to kill themselves before they can be questioned in depth. The result may be nutritious, but is decidedly uninformative.”
Chachel considered. “You think these abnormal attacks by the spralakers are somehow related to this coldness that torments you?”
This time the shaman turned his entire body toward the hunter. “You see? You do think! Do not be so disparaging of the practice. It can be more useful than you believe. As to your question, I regret that at this stage any response I might give would not be definitive. I have a sense they are somehow connected, yes. As are all abnormal circumstances that occur simultaneously. But I cannot be certain. I have no proof, and all could be coincidence. One thing I do know: for the safety and sake of all, we must find out.”
“When will you have an answer?” While not especially interested in the safety and sake of all, Chachel retained an abiding interest in his own well-being.
“I won’t.” One by one, tentacles of determined flesh and tendrils of ensorcelled
light began to release their grip on the current-scoured rocky rim overlooking the deep. “Having striven mightily for some time now, I have sourced only puzzlement and confusion for my trouble. The resolution of this conundrum demands greater skill than I possess.”
Chachel blinked. “There are those with shamanistic ability superior to Oxothyr?”
The octopus blushed amusement. “You have no idea, hunter. But you will, you will.” He inhaled sharply, his body ballooning. “There is no alternative to it. We must consult the Deep Oracle.”
Chachel paused but briefly. “Never heard of it.”
“There is no reason why you should. The Deep Oracle is sought only by those whose wisdom has come to an end. As has mine in this matter.” Releasing his last arm, the red-green filaments of light collapsing into his aura, he let the current take hold of his body and sweep him back toward Siriswirll. Caught up in the shaman’s fading radiance and the indifferent upwelling, Chachel allowed himself to be carried along beside the mage.
“Where do you find this Deep Oracle?”
“Ah, that is the problem, hunter. It moves around.” Oxothyr allowed the current to spin his body and the arms that trailed behind it in lazy circles as it carried both of them over fanciful edifices of coral and rock toward the center of Siriswirll. “All of Oshenerth is its home. It lives in the deep bare dark where few dare to swim, and is consequently exceedingly hard to find. But the Tornal might know. And the Tornal I do know how to find. Provided they are in residence and not traveling.”
The shaman’s thoughts were moving too fast for Chachel. His feelings of inferiority were misplaced. The shaman thought too fast for anyone.