Oshenerth (21 page)

Prior to her arrival in Oshenerth she would have found the presence of a giant octopus trailing twenty foot-long arms swimming along just above her more than slightly intimidating. By now, however, Oxothyr was a good and familiar acquaintance. Despite his suckered tentacles and goggling eyes, the sac-like body and serrated beak, in her mind’s eye she saw him as a kindly old sage. Picture the trailing arms as the strands of a beard and the head-body as one wearing a soft crown and it was almost possible to see him as human. Glasses would have helped to complete the picture, but Oxothyr did not need glasses. Like the eyesight of even the lowliest manyarm, his was extremely sharp.

“Do not dwell on the encounter,” he reiterated. “It is all part of an old and familiar ritual.”

A blast of water struck her in the face as he shot ahead. Kicking hard, she managed to catch up. “What ritual?”

“You will find out. Or maybe you won’t. Either way you’ll learn something of importance,” he concluded cryptically.

She decided to let the matter drop. There was too much else to concentrate on, too much to see, to spend time worrying about Poylee’s motivations. Surely she still didn’t think the visitor from the void had any sort of design on the hunter Chachel? Irina thought she had made that perfectly clear.

As a diver, she believed she had seen and experienced a fair sampling of what the underwater world had to offer. All of her experiences combined, however, could not equal what she saw in a single day’s travel westward along the reef line. Where she recalled hardly being able to contain her excitement during a dive several years ago over an encounter with a cluster of several hundred yellow, black, and white bannerfish, the travelers swam through a school of twenty thousand. Later that day a hundred big dorado sped by heading in the opposite direction; their striking, mallet-headed green shapes shimmering with flecks of silver. As they swept past, each and every one of them proffered a resonant and rushed “hello!” like some traveling opera chorus cruising the open road.

A thousand spade-shaped black-and-silver batfish made an unhurried approach perpendicular to the travelers’ route, yet not a single collision took place between merson, manyarm, and the flattened face-sized finners. Famously inquisitive, a dozen or so broke away from the main school to tag along for awhile, peppering Sathi and Tythe in particular with interminable questions about the travelers’ direction and purpose that the two famuli were naturally prohibited from answering. The irritation lasted until a manyarm warrior from Siriswirll snatched up one of the most persistent questioners and began, unapologetically, to make of him a traveling snack. Along with the rest of their unanswered questions, the remaining batfish prudently made haste to rejoin their schoolmates.

In addition to species that she recognized, Irina found herself passing creatures that appeared to have been designed rather than evolved. One trio of angelfish, members of an always colorful family, boasted iridescent purple and yellow bodies propelled by brilliant golden fins, bright crimson eyespots near their tails, and jet-black eyes streaked with sapphire. A cluster of sea fans clinging to one coral cliff showed every color of the rainbow. Their section of reef looked as if it had suffered an attack by a contingent of crazed Crayolas. There were box triggerfish the size of trash cans, wrasses whose males boasted black stripes and the females black spots, giant snails with multiple shells that browsed the coral like miniature wandering churches, and graceful oversized nudibranchs whose flamboyantly colored unfurled bodies resembled a carton of Hawaiian dress shirts.

There was simply too much to take in, she told herself. Too much to absorb. Her senses were overwhelmed, her perception exhausted. For a while, a twenty-foot long tiger shark paced the party off to its left. The mersons and manyarms on that side closed ranks, forming a wall the shark could not penetrate in hopes of picking off a solitary swimmer. Irina could hear it mumbling as it tried to hypnotize first the female merson who was in front, then the squid who was bringing up the rear. Neither its unbroken stare nor its rudimentary shark magic worked. After an hour or so it gave up and swam away. As it departed, Irina was positive she heard it curse. It was a shark curse, of course, and therefore undecipherable, but there was no mistaking its tone or connotation.

It was late afternoon, the end of the week, and the atmosphere above the mirrorsky had cleared when Chachel and Glint returned from reconnoitering ahead. The merson was not smiling. Come to think of it, Irina realized with a start, she had never seen the hunter smile. His cuttlefish companion managed to display more good humor, and that without a mouth or teeth.

Slowing down as he entered the group, Chachel halted in front of Oxothyr. “Rays coming,” he announced with his typical terseness.

The shaman continued forward, but adjusted his head-body so he could better see the hunter. “What kind and how many?”

“Hard to tell.” Chachel glanced back the way he had come. “Will be easy to do so soon. Maybe forty, maybe more. Stingrays, eagle—many mantas.”

“Mantas.” Oxothyr considered. “Alone?”

“I’m afraid not.” By way of emphasis and explanation, Chachel brought his spear around in front of him and gripped it firmly in both hands. It was a simple gesture, but more than enough.

Oxothyr let out a resigned sigh. “Pass the word. Get everyone into an appropriate defensive configuration. You two.” Sathi and Tythe closed formation with their master. “Head off to left and right and stay outside. We’ll need you to keep a sharp eye out for any other enemy that may have gone undetected.”

“Yes, Master!” Tythe was one squirt ahead of his comrade in shooting off in the opposite direction.

“Why are rays an enemy of mersons and manyarms?” Irina gazed worriedly ahead, remembering the near crushing attack rays and their spralaker riders had delivered at Siriswirll. “They’re not spralaker-kind.”

“No indeed.” Changing from a benign beige to a bright orange laced with red, the shaman’s color shift revealed his own mental and emotional preparations for combat. “They are easily engaged, however, by whosoever will promise them food. Remember that they are cousin to the shark, and therefore not to be trusted.” The shaman was clearly troubled. “Still, it is curious that we should find ourselves dealing with them here and now, so soon after many of their kind were slain at Siriswirll. I fear my studies and my presence may have become known to malevolent elements, and thereby drawn unwelcome attention to the rest of you.”

She hesitated, then reached over to draw a hand down the upper length of one of the mage’s eight limbs. “Anything that threatens you threatens all of us, Oxothyr.”

Both eyes peered back at her. “You show hidden wisdom, changeling.” Suddenly a pair of tentacles gestured ahead, past the mersons in the lead. “Ready yourself—here they come.…”

— XIV —

Swift they were, the different kinds of rays. The expanding cloud of rapidly approaching, flapping wings made it look as if the waves that disturbed the mirrorsky had taken on color and form and somehow managed to descend to deeper depths. Eyeing the flock of oncoming aggressors, Irina thought she could make out four distinct species. One that boasted of four wings instead of two was plainly an inhabitant only of Oshenerth. Nothing like it had ever soared through the seas of her own world.

On the backs of each ray rode a number of spralakers fantastically diverse in shape, size, and proportion. The common denominator was their demeanor; a focused fury that was shared and escalating. Armed with spears, knives, and their own integral chitinous armor, Irina didn’t see how despite their numbers they could prove much of a threat out in the open ocean to the far more agile mersons and manyarms.

She quickly found out.

As always, it was on the sea floor where the spralakers would have an advantage, where their multiple legs could firmly grip rock and coral to assure them a solid, stable fighting platform. Countervailing merson and manyarm tactics required that they strike from above, where their greater maneuverability put them in command. That was how Jorosab and the others began the battle. They did not expect the presence of the rays to force any difference in tactics. Fish or rays, it was all the same. Except that it wasn’t.

As expected the intercepting force dove low, heading for the bottom. But the rays did not disembark their scuttling passengers onto the reef. Instead, they formed into a series of circles underneath the expedition and commenced a rapid ascent. Whenever a merson or manyarm tried to swim out past the farthest edge of the swiftly rising formation, several rays broke clear to force the breakaway individual back.

Irina found herself hemmed in with the others as they discovered that they were being herded closer and closer to the looming mirrorsky. Meanwhile plenty of merson and manyarm arrows found their marks. Trailing dark blood, wounded rays fluttered aimlessly out of the rising circular formation or crashed into the reef below, dumping their frustrated, wailing crustacean passengers onto the coral and too far from the fighting to participate. But even those shafts that struck home did not always put a ray out of action. Their skin was incredibly tough. Many arrowpoints failed to penetrate.

Whenever a member of the expedition charged downward and attempted to break through the circle, they were immediately met by a barrage of spears or knives. These were usually but not always avoided. Merson spears and manyarm arrows were taking a terrible toll among the attackers, but the reduced numbers maintained their ascending circle and continued to press their adversaries skyward.

The strategy was clear. Force the members of the expedition steadily upward until they could ascend no farther and then engage them in the kind of close quarter hand-to-claw, hand-to-tentacle combat in which the hard-shelled spralakers excelled. It became a race to see if the expedition’s archers could reduce the number of attackers to the point where their upward-pressing disc of mounted rays collapsed. And so before merson and manyarm hit, not the wall, but the sky.

Sting rays, golden rays, eagle rays—all were sizable, but by themselves not large enough to force an agile swimmer up against the mirrorsky. Only the mantas were big enough to do that. Only the so-called devil fish, with their thirty-foot wide winged bodies, could force a merson upward while shutting off every avenue of escape.

One fighter who tried to make a dash between two of the rising mantas was not fast enough. Caught in a crossfire of spears and knives flung by eager spralakers, she sustained first one, then several deep wounds. Finned legs slowing, arms crossed over her chest, she struggled to swim clear. Leaping off the end of one manta’s wing, several spralakers caught her on the way down. No single, merciful killing thrust was forthcoming; clinging to her head and body, the pitiless crustaceans proceeded to hack her to pieces.

The rippling underside of the mirrorsky was now near enough for Irina to look over her shoulder and make out the blurry, distorted, but still recognizable orb of the sun riding high in a long unvisited sky. She could feel its heat on her shoulders and back. Around and below her the battle raged. Pierced by arrows and then by spears, more of the swirling, circling rays were sent spiraling downward. Below the intense fighting, it was raining spralakers. Poor swimmers at best, they kicked and flailed in futile attempts to remain high enough in the water column to continue to participate in the fight. Eager arriving scavengers began to pick them off, while those of the wounded who landed on the reef below were quickly singled out for consumption by marauding morays and hungry groupers.

So much activity this close to the surface should have drawn the attention of aerial predators, but apparently there were none. Irina found herself wondering if anything flew in the sky of Oshenerth or walked on its dry land.

A mad thrashing off to her right made her whirl. She recognized the isolated fighter immediately. Poylee had been cornered by a pair of spralaker-carrying mantas. With one of the winged monsters circling on either side of her she could not flee in any direction without running into waiting spralaker spears. If she tried to swim downward to regain maneuverable water, she would find herself caught in a potentially deadly crossfire. All she could do was strike out with her spear and keep fending off the giants and their hard-shelled riders. Meanwhile the mantas continued to close in, forcing her inexorably upward toward the mirrorsky.

Behind the cut-off skirmish a third manta could be seen approaching; slowly, but gathering speed. Instead of readying their weapons for attack, the spralakers clinging to its back were hunkering down and digging their feet and claws into the giant ray’s tough epidermis. As the manta continued to accelerate, Irina sensed what was coming. She looked around for help. With bow-armed Sathi and Tythe flanking him, Oxothyr was occupied elsewhere. Chachel and Glint were wreaking havoc among a group of panicking eagle rays and their increasingly flustered riders. Riding the back of a bucking manta, Jorosab was ridding it of its hardshelled tenants with scything arcs of his long knife, like a sushi chef gone mad.

She looked around. Poylee’s spine and shoulders were pressed right up against the mirrorsky. At least she couldn’t be attacked from that direction. But the security was deceptive. One of the two circling mantas darted closer, forcing the young merson’s back to actually break the surface. At the same time the wings of the approaching third manta thrust downward harder than ever. The spralakers riding its back and wings flattened themselves against their massive mount.

Unseen by Poylee, the second manta came up directly beneath her and forced her through the mirrorsky. As it did so, the spralakers on its back scuttled around to cling to its underside.

Kicking as hard as she could, Irina shot forward. Intercepting the surfaced manta, she struck out with the butt end of her spear. Catching the spralakers hanging from its belly by surprise, she knocked several off before they noted her presence. By then she was pushing herself hard, hard, out of the water as she pulled herself onto the manta’s back.

For the first time in weeks she felt the sun on her skin. It seemed as if she had stuck her face into an oven. Then her outstretched left arm slammed into Poylee’s side. The shock reverberated through her. Lying atop the surfaced manta, she inhaled several times. The bloat of air filling her lungs was an alien sensation, as if she had swallowed a helium-filled balloon. But unlike Poylee, who was clawing at her gills while flopping atop the manta’s expansive back like a fish out of water, she did not gag.

Shoving forcefully, she pushed the choking Poylee off the surfaced manta and back into the water near its tail. As the two of them sank beneath the surface, the searing sun was eclipsed by a rapidly expanding shadow.

Having launched itself completely out of the water, the ton of airborne manta landed hard on the back of its brethren. The impact forced the second manta deeper down but it suffered no damage from the collision. Had Poylee been caught between the pair, however, she would have been smashed as completely as Glint crushed a clam for breakfast.

Holding the merson by an arm Irina continued to kick vigorously, sending both of them hurling downward. Behind them the water boiled as the no longer airborne manta flapped hard to slide off the back of its brother. The water around them was filled with irate, cursing spralakers, furious that the carefully planned attack had failed. All the muttering and activity finally drew the attention of other mersons and manyarms, who arrived and began to cleanse the immediate area.

Regaining control of herself, a hacking, coughing Poylee finally recovered enough strength to push Irina away from her. Throughout it all she had somehow managed to hold onto her spear.

“How did you …?” Her astonished query was interrupted by another fit of coughing as bubbles bursting from her mouth. It did not matter. Irina had anticipated the question.

“I saw what was happening, saw the third manta coming toward you and picking up speed. It looks like I can still breathe out of the water, at least a little.”

“Demon.” A recovering Poylee massaged her neck with her free hand.

“Changeling,” a relieved Irina corrected her. “You
might
say thank you.”

“I was getting to that.” Poylee looked annoyed at having the omission pointed out. “If I hadn’t been smashed, they would have held me above the mirrorsky until I drowned. I—thank you, Irina,” she finally finished. “You did save my life.”

Irina smiled. “You would’ve done the same for me.”

“No I wouldn’t.” Turning and lowering her spear, the merson kicked hard to rejoin the battle.

Watching legs and hips, fins and webbing recede in the direction of the fighting, Irina found herself in mind of an old saying. “’Tis better to deal with an honest enemy than a lying friend.” Like many old sayings, she was not sure she bought the premise. It was, however, one she apparently was going to have to live with. Scissor-kicking her legs and gripping her weapon, she headed off determinedly in Poylee’s wake.

By now the members of the expeditionary force had killed, wounded, or driven off the remainder of the attackers. Surviving rays and spralakers scattered. Out of the corner of an eye Irina saw one big bull ray snapped up, spralaker riders and all, by a fifteen-foot tiger shark that had been circling in wait among the coral. The ray uttered a single gasp as ragged teeth clamped down over its head, while those spralakers not immediately crushed or swallowed abandoned their ride for the presumed safety of the colorful coral labyrinth below. None of the mersons or manyarms pursued. Without a mount to transport them it was unlikely any spralakers would survive the long trek back to their place of origin. Those voracious and efficient independent operators the sharks would see to that.

None of the latter tried to make a move on any of the several injured members of the small expeditionary force. Not with armed fighters prepared and ready to defend the wounded. Besides, there were ample easier pickings. The reef beneath where the midwater skirmish had taken place was littered with the corpses of dead or dying rays and spralakers.

O O O

Despite the day’s success in battle, when the travelers settled down for the night beneath a huge stone arch fringed with thousands of brilliantly hued soft corals, Irina found Oxothyr sunk in as pensive a mood as ever. Nearby, his famuli were busily preparing dinner by stripping the shells from a pile of scavenged mollusks. In her still new, still alien surroundings there were often times when she had to force herself to eat, however visually unappealing the food on offer might be. One of her favorites was raw fish seasoned with cuttlefish ink, which Glint was happy to provide. It helped that as a surface dweller she had several times enjoyed variants of both dishes.

“Why so somber, shaman? We won.”

“What—oh, good evening, changeling.” His arms drifting aimlessly around him, as if he had forgotten they were attached to his body, the mage sat on a bulbous upthrust of dark green mushroom coral. Occasionally he would reach down to pluck out of one of the crevices a hors d’oeuvre in the form of a too-curious blenny, but it was obvious his thoughts and concentration lay on matters other than food. “Yes, we won.”

She settled down beside him, careful to take a seat on a much smoother, more rounded hump of brain coral. Somewhere overhead, the unseen sun was setting. Sharply angled sunlight piercing the perfectly transparent, unpolluted water was transformed into a shower of twinkling gold coins.

“Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t act like we won.”

A tentacle coiled in her direction, making the gesture that she now knew stood in for a cephalopodan smile. The shaman’s body morphed from a deep taupe to a more cheery fuchsia, with blue stripes.

“Take no notice of it. I am by nature a brooder. The corollary to great responsibility is often a chronic moodiness. I wish it were otherwise. I like to laugh as much as the next. If it’s amusement you want, I suggest you seek out the company of a cuttlefish. Of all the manyarms they are the most prone to comedy.”

“It’s not that,” she told him. Exhibiting a rare playfulness, the tip of another tentacle curled around her right big toe and tugged gently. She pulled back. “I think I can tell the difference now between when you’re worried and when you’re just thinking.”

One golden eye swiveled toward her. “Your perception increases beyond mere simple physical realities. Yes, I don’t deny it. Much about today’s encounter concerns me.”

“You’re afraid we’ll be attacked again?” Idly, she poked a finger at the flaring, multi-colored gills of the Christmas tree worms with whom she was sharing the brain coral. As in her own, more familiar seas back home, the thumbnail-sized parasols contracted sharply back into their burrows as soon as her fingers drew too near. Unlike those with which she was familiar, each time one here did so, it left a tiny annelid swear word in its wake.