Oshenerth (36 page)

A surge of displaced water nearly knocked her off the mound, but she held tight to the top of the small finger of rock. Dropping down in front of her was an enormous tangle of arms lined with razor-edged suckers. Several of the tentacles were already engaged in the gruesome task of separating spralaker soldiers from their limbs. One arm lunged toward her. Springing to one side and out into the water column, she deflected the strike with her knife. The massive questing appendage slid past.

It was so unjust, she reflected as she found herself floating free, to suffer this loss at the very moment of victory. Bringing the monsters of manyarm kind into the fray was unfair. So of course was the use of magic, the employment of which by the Great Lord’s Paramount Advisor had been a key component of spralaker strategy. One invidious turn deserved another, she supposed. Continuing to parry and block the coiling tentacle that searched for her, she did not see the even more massive hunting arm that came curling around behind. Probably it was just as well.

It cracked her like an egg.

Of the three Mud Marshals who constituted the First Army’s general staff, only Cavaumaz escaped to join up with Gubujul’s force. Seriously reduced in strength, remnants of both the First and Second armies gradually gathered around their surviving leaders in straggling northeastward toward home. Each exhausted soldier had left many comrades and fellow fighters behind, usually in bits and pieces. The battlefields to the north and west of still unconquered Benthicalia were littered with the limbs and shells of the dismembered.

Only when they were many days march out from the defiant city did the Mud Marshal find the strength of spirit to speak to the Paramount Advisor.

“What will you do when we get home?” Looking nervously back over his shell, Cavaumaz added, “Assuming the monsters do not pursue and we succeed in safely reaching the northlands.”

“Do?” Skittering along on slender, fragile, but still intact legs, Gubujul turned a doleful eye on the tactician. “I will beg for my life, of course. As will you and any other survivor of rank. I would expect we will all end up as part of a ceremonial meal in the palace.” One long, red-banded arm gestured in Cavaumaz’s direction. “I will be honored by being a component of the main course. I fear you will have to be satisfied with being relegated to the rank of appetizer.”

Cavaumaz did not look flattered. “You think it will be as bad as that?”

“As
bad
?” Bubbles burst from the Paramount Advisor’s mouth as he failed to contain his laughter. “Why, that is my most optimistic assessment of our prospects, respected Marshal! More likely and much worse, we will be kept alive for the amusement of those who charged us with the success of this unfortunate enterprise.” Like the bulk of the two spralaker armies, the laughter soon died. “But even that, I fear, is still not the worst option.”

Though loath to hear the answer, a distraught Cavaumaz still found himself asking the inescapable question. “What might that be, Paramount Advisor?”

The stenopus turned to look more sharply at him. “At the Great Lord’s discretion, we will be given to Sajjabax. I would far, far rather be consigned to the tender mercies of the kitchen or the torture chamber than to the exquisite ingenuity of the mad mage.”

Cavaumaz swallowed hard. “Perhaps it lies within the demented wizard’s province to prove merciful?”

“Yes,” murmured Gubujul. “I am as confident of that as I am that when word of our final disposition is received, I will be sure to take steps to kill myself in as painless and expedient a manner as possible. You might consider preparing your own demise. One option would be to offer yourself up to the beaks of the manyarms before chancing the benevolence of the black-shining Sajjabax.”

Cavaumaz was silent for awhile, still sneaking furtive glances back the way they had come. “We had no chance against them, did we?”

Gubujul gestured wearily. “Just one more day and we would have overrun the city, dealt with its inhabitants, and ensconced ourselves so thoroughly in its maze of passageways and buildings that not even the greatest and most powerful of the manyarms could have rooted us out. One more day.” For the first time, he joined the Marshal in looking back in the direction of the distant city.

“Though diplomacy and protocol are more my métier, I have discovered that war is much like the currents that surge through all of Oshenerth. Never take anything about them for granted, for on a moment’s notice they can sweep you up and carry you away, smash you against the rocks, or spin you into the center of a maelstrom from which you may not be strong enough to extricate yourself. Nothing about a strong current is predictable or certain.”

“The judgment of the Great Lord …,” Cavaumaz began plaintively.

“No.” Gubujul lengthened his stride slightly to take advantage of the slight following current. “That much, at least,
is
certain. Unless …”

Though he knew his chances of surviving the fallout from the rout at Benthicalia lay somewhere on the downside of nil, the Paramount Advisor found himself beginning to plan, and to scheme. It was not in his nature to go quietly into the Empty Water.

An aide, all fluttering arms and quivering palps, intruded on his meditating. “Your pardon, Paramount Advisor, but we should increase our efforts to depart from this place.”

“Why?” Cavaumaz had enough strength left for contempt. “The battle for Benthicalia is over. We have lost. There is no need now for haste. Only for recrimination.”

The smaller crustacean inclined his body forward as a sign of respect, but a hint of defiance crept into his tone. Defiance, and dread. “Your pardon, my lord, but there is. The sharks who have been waiting Outside are now coming to seek the reward for their patience.” One claw, trembling visibly, pointed out into the darkness. The darkness that was closing in inexorably around the ragged lines of exhausted, retreating troops. Wounded, bleeding troops.

“There are thousands of them, my lord.”

O O O

Though it was a long way indeed from battered Benthicalia to the great volcanic palace of the northlands, the illustrious and all-conquering Lord Kulakak did not have to wait for a herald to bring official word of the total defeat of his armies. All that was necessary was for him to confront the tightly restrained figure of Sajjabax where the mage was held captive in his alcove.

“Things are not going well,” the wizard informed his master. “I sense panic and alarm, terror and dread.” There was almost a hint of amusement in the mage’s sepulchral voice. “It would seem that Benthicalia is not to become the summer residence you so ardently desired.”

“Nor yours, remember,” a quietly raging Kulakak growled. His great claws clenched and opened, clenched and opened. He longed for a shell to crush, an eye to put out, but none were at hand. Obtaining them was not difficult, but would take at least a moment or two, and would mean terminating his dialogue with the mage. Ordering up a sacrificial outlet for his fury would have to wait until later.

“It’s the fault of that wretched, worthless advisor of mine. I should never have put him in overall command. I should have opted for ability over trust.”

“Everything I perceive tells me that this setback is not the fault of the cunning and loyal Gubujul.” Striking out with both main claws, Sajjabax attempted to kill the Great Lord. Though deep in thought Kulakak was not so preoccupied, however, as to let himself drift within range of the mage’s murderous arms. The lethal cavitation unleashed by Sajjabax’s double blow dissipated through the water long before the heat and pressure generated could do little more than tickle the Great Lord’s shell. The conversation continued as if the blatant attempt at murder had not taken place.

“If the catastrophe is not the responsibility of the Paramount Advisor, then what?” Kulakak was as determined to know the reason for defeat as he would have been for the victory that was evidently not to be. “The First and Second armies of the northlands were strong, their leaders brave, the general staff of both suitably determined and experienced. What happened to bring about so complete a humiliation?”

“All is not transparent.” Since he had no eyelids, it was never possible to tell what the enchanter Sajjabax was actually looking at. “In the confusion of defeat, there is contusion of perception. It clouds my vision. But one thing I do see clearly.” On their stalks, his singular eyes inclined slightly forward and down.

“There is another magician.”

That got the Great Lord’s attention. “The mersons and the manyarms have a wizard of their own?”

“Not a true mage, I think.” Unusually, Sajjabax was showing signs of strain. “A shaman. A simple rural practitioner of tricks and dispenser of potions. I cannot clearly divine the extent of his participation, but there is no doubt he is in someway connected to the disaster. There are others as well. Because of their great age I dismissed them as irrelevant. It is now become clear that while very old indeed, they are not wholly senile, and that at least some of their powers are retained. And,” he paused, clearly struggling with the effort to see beyond the chamber, “there is something else. Something more. Or possibly something less. I cannot tell. Not—yet.”

Kulakak’s tone was grim. “Go on.”

“I think it is, I believe it may be, some sort of—changeling. Its full involvement in the affairs of Oshenerth I cannot clearly glimpse. A strange creature, at once female and strong, if oddly conflicted. Weak-seeming, and yet …” He went silent.

“And yet?” the Great Lord prompted him.

But the mage had gone quiescent, overcome once more by the madness that ebbed and flowed within him like a tide, revealing sometimes coherence and most of the time a hushed incomprehensibility. Frustrated, Kulakak turned and scuttled slowly away.

What now? he asked himself. What to do now that the intended cleansing of the southern reefs had been brought to a sudden and ignominious standstill? In the stillness of the palace and the shutdown of Sajjabax he found that he yearned for Gubujul’s counsel. Had the Paramount Advisor escaped the calamity? What should be done with him if he returned to the capital? Kulakak knew that he needed the smaller spralaker’s advice as never before. He also knew that upon setting eyes on the advisor he would be hard-pressed to keep from dismembering him one joint at a time.

He shrugged it off. Revenge was for the weak-minded, for those who could not control their emotions. For those who could not see the greater picture. And that picture showed him, as it had for some time now, that the south must somehow be conquered. Must be taken for the greater glory not only of Kulakak but for all spralakers.

Because if they did not vanquish the mersons and manyarms who controlled the southern reefs and take it for themselves, he and his kind were most surely doomed to a slow, lingering, and inevitable death.

O O O

Only the outside of the Palace of the Tornal had been damaged. The intricately decorated interior, with its fluctuating bioluminescent lights and fluted silicate embellishments and gleaming reflective surfaces, was still intact.

So, it seemed, were the Tornal themselves. Looking on as they lumbered or dragged themselves laboriously out into the audience chamber, Irina counted carefully and could find none absent.

The ammonite who served as Speaker trundled slightly out front of the others, pulling herself along with her strong tentacles. Her coiled shell glistened with recent attention. Speeches would have to be given. Celebrations were anticipated. Congratulations had to be extended. The Tornal were not looking forward to it.

But first another obligation need be discharged.

The Speaker entwined tentacles with Oxothyr. “To your intervention we owe our continued existence.”

The shaman dismissed the compliment. “It was your diplomat who persuaded the great deep ones to come to the salvation of the city.”

“And it was the escort provided by the village of Sandrift that enabled Oultm to carry out his mission,” declared a beautifully striped orthocera from nearby.

At the mention of their home, those mersons and manyarms in attendance let out a soft, concerted bubbling, the underwater equivalent of a collective sigh. Irina could only envy them. It appeared they would have a home to return to, one likely to be safe from any immediate future depredations by spralakers of any kind. Not only could she not return to her home, she did not even know where it was. Pushing the depressing thought aside, she tried to concentrate on the ceremony at hand. The Speaker for the Tornal was coming to the point that had brought Irina and her newfound friends to Benthicalia in the first place.

“What would you claim as reward?” the ammonite burbled. “Insofar as we have it; food, medium of exchange, supplies of any sort, they are yours for the asking. If it’s a parade you wish, or acclamation of another kind, it will be done. Should you require …”

Sensing that the recitation of offerings could go on for quite some time, Oxothyr twisted a pair of arms in a certain fashion and made so bold as to cut the speaker off.

“We require only that for which we originally chose to visit your wondrous city, venerable speaker. The answer to a question that will hopefully allow us to seek the answer to a question. The information that, if you recall, I was on the verge of requesting from you when word first came of the spralaker offensive.”

Bemused, the Speaker eyed her companions. “As with food, acclaim, or anything else that is to be found in our community, if we have this knowledge then it is yours for the asking.”

Oxothyr turned a rich shade of indigo marked with bright yellow spots. The effect was striking. Looking on, Glint knew he could never have equaled it.

“We need to find the Deep Oracle, and have not the faintest notion of where to begin searching.”

A murmur rose from the assembled Tornal. Listening intently, Irina felt she could make out no hint of dismay. They were simply debating the matter among themselves. The buzz of communication, she decided, bode well for the eventual response. It was not long in coming.

“We have discussed your request,” the Speaker announced, “compared knowledge, and processed remembrances. By all accounts and based on what is known at present, the Deep Oracle should be keeping to itself somewhere in the vicinity of the Pinnacle of Clariondes.”