“Yes,” observed Kulakak dryly, “who among the mersons and manyarms would have been able to stand against your celebrated ferocity?” His attention remained focused on the messenger. “Pray continue.” When she appeared to hesitate, Kulakak’s massive body tilted slightly in her direction. “You falter. Why?”
“Next in line to be annihilated was the much larger community of Siriswirll. At first all went as planned.” On hearing the words “At first,” Kulakak’s eyes seemed to darken. Having no choice, the miserable messenger plunged onward.
“Perhaps we were betrayed. Perhaps those assigned to prevent any word of our attack from passing beyond the vicinity of the besieged town failed in their duties. Whatever the cause or reason, an unexpected relief force arrived from another village: Sandrift.” The messenger’s voice sped up, as if she was anxious, even desperate, to conclude her report.
“Steps had been taken and the usual precautions put in place to deal with such a possibility. The relief force was not large, but its members fought much more skillfully than expected. They employed unanticipated tactics. Furthermore, they had a shaman with them and—a changeling.”
“A what?” Gubujul blurted in surprise.
“Shut up.” Kulakak’s eyestalks barely moved. “Go on, messenger.”
“We were unable to find out much about the changeling, but it quickly became clear that this shaman Oxothyr—his name and much of this information was gleaned from a prisoner—was much more than the simple dispenser of potions and parlor tricks usually to be found in such small merson communities. Potent sortilege was unleashed against us. Counterattacks were deployed with a military sophistication belying their rustic origin. Our leaders were outmaneuvered and—I must say it—out-thought.”
The towering murk of the throne room was silent for long moments as its master contemplated what had been said. “What of Corolak, commander of the expeditionary force?”
The messenger swallowed as her eyestalks retracted fully into her shell. “Dead and dismembered, my Lord Kulakak. Like nearly all of our fighters. Only a few survived. More may yet trickle in,” she added, trying to strike a hopeful note. “We scattered in hopes of surviving to fight again another day. I regret that I myself have not many who can confirm what I say. Only just enough.”
Kulakak pondered aloud. “Corolak dead. I would not have believed it. He had the tenacity of a king and the claws of an executioner. Few survived, you say?” Reluctantly, the messenger waved her red-speckled left claw by way of confirmation.
So thick was the tension in the throne room that it seemed to freeze the tide itself. The urchins affixed to the walls trembled, the shivering of their spines seeming to set the entire chamber in motion.
Finally, Kulakak exhaled softly. “Well then, we will just have to assemble a new, greater army and attack again, won’t we?”
At the Great Lord’s matter-of-fact response, Gubujul relaxed—though not half so much as the apprehensive messenger. Sliding off the jadeite throne to advance on powerful chitinous legs, Kulakak put an arm across her scarred back, the pincers that tipped the massive claw at its end remaining closed.
“You have done a service to all spralakers by bringing us so promptly and thoroughly the news of this unfortunate happening,” he declared as he half-guided, half-urged the smaller crustacean to one side of the throne room. “Had you fought and died in battle you would not have been able to deliver the information. I will consider what now must be done to deal with this disaster and how it must be gone about. But first there is another here who has listened to what you have said and who will doubtless be eager to express his own feelings.”
Held out in front of him, Gubujul’s red-banded forearms abruptly froze in position. Rising from the dark pavement, he began to tiptoe slowly backward, trying to displace as little water as possible as he retreated. His sudden desire for discretion was motivated not by courtesy, but by dread. He knew all too well of whom the Great Lord spoke.
“You should meet this individual,” Kulakak was telling the young messenger solicitously. “He really is quite fascinating.”
They had halted facing a blank wall. One roughly rectangular area was entirely devoid of the clinging, quivering, black and violet urchin guards. “I don’t see anyone, my Lord.”
“Look. Harder.” As he spoke, Kulakak took a step back.
The messenger did not see the figure at first because it was masked by the same unbreakable spell keeping it imprisoned in the alcove in the wall. As the green-black opacity that she had thought was just another slab of stone began to clear, wisps of chain metal forged in the fires of the Great Deep came into view. They helped to bind, though by themselves they could not restrain, a most singular shape. She recognized it. She screamed.
Bound before her in metal and by the hauntingly enchanted talisman glowing softly celadon that was looped around both prominent eyestalks was the largest mantis shrimp she had ever seen. From the tail of its segmented abdomen to its eyestalks, it was nearly as big as a merson. The giant stomatopod was a blaze of color; its body emerald green shot through with red, the independently swiveling eyes mounted atop twin eyestalks a deep, dazzling violet. Those were the eyes that locked on her now, their matchless trinocular vision analyzing every aspect of the paralyzed messenger, seeing her in a hundred thousand hues from the ultraviolet to the infrared.
“Messenger,” Kulakak intoned gravely, “you are privileged to meet Sajjabax. Commander of thaumaturgy, Master of the Arcane Arts, Orderer of Obscene Knowledge, Delver into the Depths of Otherness. Sajjabax the Shrewd. Sajjabax the Conjurer. Sajjabax the All-Knowing and Inscrutable. Sajjabax the Horrifically Beautiful. Sajjabax the Insane.”
Few were the spralakers who had actually gazed upon the legendary stomatopod’s countenance. The necromancer’s name was well enough known, however. Parents employed it to frighten young spawn into ready compliance. Mere mention of it was known to panic the bravest fighters and most skilled hunters. Among others the name of Sajjabax remained nothing more than an especially fearsome rumor. But here, in the hoary throne room of the Spralakers of the Northern Realms, the myth arose clad in full flesh, chitin, and chains.
Bluish-purple eyes stared down at the unmoving ivory disc-shape of the petrified messenger. Having retreated to a recess near the entrance, Gubujul gazed upon the scene in expectant silence. Even though he knew what likely was coming, he knew also he would not see it. No one could, not even the exceptionally perceptive Kulakak. Perhaps another stomatopod might be able to do so. To find out one would have to ask. On this one matter the normally inquisitive Gubujul was quite content to dwell in ignorance. Certainly the messenger had no idea.
Leaning forward as much as his metal bonds and restraining talisman permitted, Sajjabax began to speak, vigorously and at length.
It was gibberish. All of it. Neither worldly commentary nor conjurer’s code, the steady stream of forceful nonsense filled the water to disperse harmlessly.
Not so the trancer’s thick cocked forearms. They flicked out once, faster than any eyes could see. Had the appropriate instrumentation been present, it would have measured the speed of the strike at eight milliseconds with a force of ten thousand gravities. The blow was accompanied by a barely discernible flash of sonoluminescence. Within the bubble of force created by the necromancer’s double punch, cavitation generated an undetectable burst of heat in the range of several thousand Kelvin.
None of this was apparent to or sensed by either the Great Lord or his cowering Paramount Advisor. They perceived only the results.
The collapsing cavitation bubble generated by the all but invisible thrust of the insane incanter’s forearms had simply exploded the messenger’s hard-shelled body. Tiny fragments of shell and flesh, bits of organs and strips of gills, settled slowly to the floor; a shimmering silent shower that was the messenger’s former physical self. No malicious spell could have done worse, no evil enchantment proven more lethal.
Stepping out from his provis
ional hiding place, Gubujul fluttered slowly back to where his liege was thoughtfully contemplating the utterly shattered remnants of the messenger who had been unlucky enough to be the one designated to deliver the bad news.
“She should have stayed and fought and died with her comrades.” Looking up, Kulakak calmly regarded the talismaniacally restrained, monotonously babbling figure of the all-powerful crustacean conjurer. The Great Lord, Ruler of all Born with Shell, was careful to stay well back out of range of those incomprehensibly deadly forearms.
“But had she remained to fight, my Lord, as you yourself pointed out, she would not have been able to bring us the news of the tragedy.”
“Also correct.” Pivoting on his multiple legs, Kulakak turned to his much more fragile Paramount Advisor. “Of such contradictions are state decisions made.” A sigh bubbled from his mouth. “It appears we have suffered a considerable defeat. One as thorough as it is unexpected. But it is a loss that can be sustained. We underestimate the inhabitants of the Southwestern Reefs. This is a mistake that will not happen again. A brief interruption in the inexorable surge of our eventual triumph. Our enemies will be exterminated and we will take the reefs for our own.” Eyestalks inclined down toward the attentive Advisor.
“Even simple moves are rarely uneventful, craven manipulator of words. In the coming days I will need your full attention and your most incisive insight.”
“You have it, my Lord! As always.” All six of Gubujul’s slender antennae dipped forward.
Three found themselves suddenly clamped in the Great Lord’s right claw. Gubujul froze. The slightest increase in pressure from that massive grip would see them snipped off as easily as he would dismember a clutch of roe.
“See that it is so. I am afraid that for awhile you will have to forgo your usual pleasures and distractions. As will I. As will the members of the entire court.” Almost indifferently, he released the pinned sensory organs. Gubujul allowed himself to swallow in relief. He was very subtle about it. The Paramount Advisor to the court was famous for his ability to retain his poise under the most trying conditions. It was one reason he was still alive when so many predecessors had been demoted to the status of a quick meal.
“Only one thing concerns me,” Kulakak muttered. “This presence of a shaman who would seem to be a cut above the usual village idiot.” In raising his eyes to the figure of the nightmare crustacean bound in the wall, he also raised his voice. “What do you think, prattler of perverse possibilities? Do the mersons have among them one capable of matching your flair for the foul? Gather your wits and speak!”
The spasming, shuddering body of the giant mantis shrimp suddenly stopped moving. It was if a cloud had momentarily been wiped from those disturbingly beautiful lilac eyes. Though they focused on the Great Lord, Gubujul knew they saw him equally as well. The eyes of a stomatopod were more efficient than those of any other living thing.
For a moment, then, the madness was mislaid. The feral gesticulations and sputtering inanities ceased. Sajjabax the Magnificent gazed back at the ruler of the North. In the throne chamber the conjurer’s words resounded deep and thoughtful.
“I don’t know this one of whom you speak. I cannot get a sense of his presence. It is a matter of clever dissemination, not distance. Almost casual is the cloaking, especially for a manyarm. A formidable opponent, I think, for all that he chooses to hide it.” Thousands of ommatidia converged on the figure of Kulakak. “Watch your step as you move south, amputator of limbs, lest you forfeit a plateful of your own.”
With that, the brief spark of sanity was extinguished. The violet eyes glazed over and the passionate incomprehensible babbling resumed. Disappointed, Kulakak waved a hand at the figure and murmured a string of words. The necromancer’s head slumped forward, his mouth ceased spouting drooling drivel, and the greenish opacity that concealed him was revisited. The light from the inhibiting talisman that hung from his eyestalks faded but did not go out. If it ever did …
As Kulakak turned away, Gubujul made bold enough to ask a question that had intrigued him for some time. “My Lord, I have always wondered—and should you wish to decline to reply you need not tell me, of course—what is the origin of the amulet that imprisons the mad mage and allows you to control him? What thaumaturgic power anywhere is so much greater than that of the great Sajjabax himself that it could fashion such a thing?”
Kulakak waved a claw carelessly. “I don’t mind telling you at all, Paramount Advisor. There is no spellcaster anywhere who exceeds in knowledge and skill our own mad Sajjabax. For you see, it was he himself who fashioned the talisman and presented it to me along with the appropriate words for controlling it.”
Over time Gubujul had imagined many explanations, but this was not one that had been among them. “The wielder of such esoteric and unfathomable power gave you mastery over himself? But why? Why do such a thing?”
The Great Lord turned thoughtful, remembering. “Because he recognized his own madness, and in recognizing it, understood the damage it could do. Not only to me, to the court, to all his own kind—but to himself. So he took steps to see that he would be properly kept in check. There may be madness in that, but there is also great wisdom.”
“Verily so,” a surprised Gubujul readily agreed. “What then of his sickness? Will it always afflict him?”
“I hope so,” the Great Lord murmured grimly, “because I fear what he might do if he were sane. I do fear it.”
The Paramount Advisor considered, then remembered to inquire, “What of this changeling that was mentioned, my Lord?”
“What—oh, that. A diversion, nothing more. A curiosity we may examine at our leisure once it has been captured. The messenger spoke only of its existence, not of any strange powers it might hold. Were it possessed of such abilities, I am sure it would have been mentioned.” Kulakak hastened as he moved toward the throne.
“What are we to do now, my Lord?” Gubujul waited anxiously for a response. He was always more comfortable carrying out an order than waiting for one to be promulgated.
“Why, we will gather a multitude that will make the force just lost look like little more than a scouting expedition. It will be the greatest army the North has ever seen. There will be no missteps this time. The southern reefs will be cleansed of mersons, manyarms, and any foolish enough to ally with them.” He waved a claw. “It will not take long. When the call is spread, spralakers can assemble quickly.”
“And the shaman of whom Sajjabax spoke?” Gubujul persisted.
Eyes dipped downward as the Great Lord scrambled back up onto the jadeite throne. “Send out the necessary word. Danger large or danger small, if he is worthy of Sajjabax’s notice, then he is worthy of special attention. A castle in the current to whoever brings me this mage’s beak. As I have said it, so let it be known.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Bowing obsequiously, antennae fluttering, Gubujul backed out of the room. Having had plenty of practice, he was able to do so swiftly and without having to look behind him.
Left brooding on the stark green slab that was his throne, Kulakak pondered how best to proceed. Only occasionally could Sajjabax be relied upon to give cogent, worthwhile advice. When queried, the all-powerful and quite mad necromancer was as likely to spout the unfathomable as the efficacious. In the expansion of the war to come he could be a trump card—or a joke.
It mattered not. As sovereign of all the Northern spralakers, Kulakak knew he had no choice but to press forward with the attack and with the effort to take control of the Southwest Reeflands. There could be no delay, no turning back. That option had already molted. They would drive out or kill every merson and manyarm that resisted. It was a thing that had to be done, and as rapidly as possible.
Not even one as trusted as Gubujul knew what had become known to the Great Lord: that the People of the Shell themselves were running out of time.
O O O
In addition to the village council, nearly all the surviving members of the expeditio
nary force from Sandrift and what seemed like the entire population of Siriswirll turned out to wave the small troupe of travelers farewell and swift current. Looking back as the little group that had been chosen to try to make it to Benthicalia started on its way, Irina noted that when any party of well-wishers could count among its number more than several hundred manyarms of various species, a great deal of waving was involved indeed.
Oxothyr did not consider it an ill omen the poor light that greeted them as they set out. As the day lengthened and Siriswirll fell behind them, it unexpectedly grew darker instead of brighter. Only when the mirrorsky itself started to dapple did Irina realize what was happening. She had been underwater for so long that the memory of surface phenomena had begun to slip from her awareness.
High above the world of Oshenerth, a strong storm had been unleashed. The stippling she was seeing arose from the impact of raindrops on the surface, and the darkening from congregated storm clouds. Yet again she found herself wondering what would happen if she swam just a little higher and stuck her head out into the open air. Thanks to Oxothyr’s enchanting she had gills now. But while the mage had given her gills he had said nothing about removing her lungs. Was she then more amphibian than fish?
She decided against attempting the maneuver—at least while she was surrounded by her new friends. Though all were polite now and no longer said hurtful things, at least not in her presence, doubtless some of them still harbored suspicions about the strange changeling in their midst. Poylee in particular would seize on such an adventurous move to re-emphasize the visitor’s difference from everyone else. If she was going to try such a stunt, Irina decided, better to do so when she was alone and unobserved. So she finned along quietly beside the others and contented herself with imagining what it would be like to once again feel fresh air on her face. In many ways, the remembrance and the imagining were enough.
After all, it was not as if she was going to get out of the water and wash off the salt.