— XXII —

Days passed, and weeks, but within Benthicalia time seemed to slow to an increasingly despondent crawl. The deep-water gardens cultivated within the city could not feed its population by themselves. Limited stockpiles that had never been intended to cope with such an emergency were steadily drawn down. The usual hunting expeditions had to be forgone, since sizable teams of hunters bearing large nets would draw too much hostile attention. Even smaller foraging parties were quickly intercepted by patrolling squadrons of ray-riding spralakers. Dispersing and swimming hard, their members were able to make it safely back to the city. But they invariably did so without being able to bring back any food.

Unable to break through the city’s defenses, the two besieging spralaker armies had settled down to enforce a complete blockade. Nothing was allowed to get in or out. While the Tornal were able to exploit specific and fairly simple spells to turn otherwise inedible organic matter such as weavings, decorative sea fans, and scavenged spralaker shell into food, their efforts would ultimately only buy time. The spralaker strategy was plain enough. If they could not overrun the inhabitants of Benthicalia, they would starve them out.

It was not a glamorous way to win a battle. The victors would not be able to drape themselves in the intestines of the defeated. But it would be a victory nonetheless. And having conquered the city, the spralaker armies would then be able to move freely south and west along the reef lines, annihilating every smaller and weaker community in their path. They had to be stopped at Benthicalia.

Regardless of whether his fighting limbs are supported by stiff bone or flexible muscle, whether his eyes point forward or to the side, even the bravest soldier cannot long carry on a struggle on an empty stomach.

And while the now sponge-clad walls of the city held high and strong, the interminable assaults and vexing sorties periodically mounted by the besieging spralakers took a steady toll on the defenders. Every merson lost to a lucky throw, each manyarm surprised from behind while out on patrol, was a soldier who could not be replaced. As the steady attrition continued among the ranks of defenders, the mood inside the city grew increasingly glum. Hammered from two directions by death and hunger, desperate citizens began to whisper hesitantly of abandoning the city and fleeing for their lives.

Even an outsider like Irina could see the foolishness inherent in such talk. If trained, heavily-armed foraging parties could not escape the attention of spralaker patrols, how could families laden down with offspring and household goods hope to do so? Such dismal scenarios were among the many that she and her new friends discussed as they hovered at the front of the audience chamber in the blue-green lit Palace of the Tornal.

Several members of that august assembly were unenthusiastically debating strategy among themselves. Off to one side Oxothyr was arguing loudly with a pair of ammonites and one ten-foot long orthocera. Though the details of their deliberations were easy to hear in the enclosed chamber, Irina found her thoughts drifting absently.

It had all been so fascinating, her mysterious transformation and the time spent here in Oshenerth. Throughout it all she had faced manifold dangers and had come face to face with a watery death on many occasions. But now that it seemed to be closing in on her with an inexorability she had not encountered previously, she found herself longing more than ever before for her former life. For the gentle caress of sunshine on bare skin. For the taste of familiar foods. For laughter and conversation that did not have to travel through the medium of liquid to reach her ears. For the simple feeling of being dry.

Something nudged her inappropriately and she whirled furiously. It was only Glint, come up behind her. The cuttlefish’s bioluminescence trolled in waves of glowing maroon through his mantle.

“What—why did you do that?” Conscious that her hands had balled into fists, she relaxed the clenched fingers.

“Anger has a way of dispelling misery, however invalid-seeming the approach,” the cuttlefish explained blithely. “What were you so intense about?”

She faltered. “I—I don’t really remember. Something that had to do with dying.”

“Oh, well then.” The cuttlefish changed color to a subdued and soothing turquoise. “I suppose I should have let you simmer, like a black smoker that’s been plugged.”

“No.” Her spirits did not exactly rise, but neither did they sink any further. “Thanks for trying to help, Glint.” Pivoting in the water, she turned her attention back to Oxothyr and the deliberating Tornal. “Do you think they’ll come up with anything?”

“You mean a way of raising the siege?” Hovering beside her, the cuttlefish repeatedly twisted his arms together; back and forth, back and forth, like a piece of steel cable continuously fraying and then rebraiding itself. “They’d better think of something, Irina-changeling.” Unfolding from the muscular coil, one of his two longer hunting tentacles curled up and under to stroke his ventral side. “I’m starving. Eventually I’ll shrink until only my head and arms are left.”

“Then there’ll still be enough left to complain with,” she told him, making sure to add a grin to show that she was joking.

No such humor was evident among the Tornal. Already old and weary when the spralaker onslaught had begun, they were now almost too tired to debate. Their exhaustion conferred one benefit: they were increasingly disposed to listen to anything arising outside their immediate circle that smacked of a reasonable suggestion, whether it involved means magical or prosaic.

Unsurprisingly then, they were more than ready to pay attention to Oxothyr.

Irina readied herself for whatever the shaman was going to say when he broke away from the ammonites with whom he had been conversing and swam over to rejoin them. Beside her, Glint stiffened. They were quickly joined by Chachel, Poylee, Sathi, Tythe, and the stolid Jorosab. The mage eyed each of them in turn.

“We have come a long way together, my friends. We have suffered together, and triumphed together. Now we face a set of circumstances more daunting and desperate than any that have gone before. The city is collapsing in upon itself. Soon the siphons of its defenders will be incapable of expelling water and their arms too weak to fling spears. Before that happens we must act.” With one arm, he gestured in the direction of the Tornal, who had ceased talking among themselves and were moving slowly to reform their familiar line.

“I have been given permission to try something. As outsiders, we are allowed somewhat more freedom of action than the city’s inhabitants. The Tornal have charged them with sustaining the defense of the community to the last hand or tentacle. That is not surprising.” Suckered arms traced cryptic patterns in the softly lit water. “We, however, swim under no such restrictions.”

The shaman’s words hinted at where he was leading. It was his unblinking stare, however, that revealed to Irina his intentions. These he soon confirmed with words. She felt a shiver pass through her that had nothing to do with the temperature of the surrounding water.

“At this particular time of year,” he continued, “there exist some distance from here potential allies who could make a significant contribution to the defense of Benthicalia. Unfortunately, they have no interest in socializing. They prefer the solitary life, and tend to keep to themselves. Except in one certain place, at this particular time of the year. But if they could be persuaded, this one time, to lend assistance, I believe they would make all the difference.”

“Who is so persuasive as you, esteemed shaman?” Jorosab exclaimed admiringly.

“At least one or two others, I hope. I cannot go. I must stay and do what I can do help defend the city. If these others of whom I speak agree to help, it will do no good if they arrive too late to find anything left worth preserving.” His great glistening eyes roamed over his silent, attentive audience.

“Those most suited to this desperate work must be the swiftest of swimmers and most skilled at avoiding detection. There is no knowing how many spralaker patrols they will have to avoid in order to slip safely clear of the city and into the depths beyond. Since they cannot allow themselves to be slowed by an excess of supplies they must also be self-reliant and able to feed themselves with whatever they encounter as they travel. They must be used to journeying on their own.” His scrutiny finally came to an end—facing Chachel and Glint. Irina was not surprised, for all that she wished it could have been otherwise.

The choice was easy enough, she knew. Inevitable, even. Who better to attempt a risky dash through spralaker lines than the pair of exceptional hunters? But asking them to be persuasive of others, let alone apparently apathetic potential allies? True, Glint could be amusing, and the cuttlefish could hold a conversation with anyone. But convincing? She wasn’t so sure. As for Chachel, well, a penchant for the non-verbal and antisocial were not qualities one often associated with a skilled diplomat.

Since the notion had readily occurred to her it was not surprising Oxothyr had already thought of it.

“This is Oultm.” As the shaman edged to one side, he revealed hovering behind him a much smaller octopus. Glowing pale pink spotted with azure, he was the same size as Glint. Small holes showed in the upper edges of his tentacles where jewelry had been removed. The octopod had stripped down for the journey to come.

The mage turned back to Chachel and Glint. “Keep him safe. He speaks many dialects and often intercedes for the Tornal with visiting travelers from afar. Now it is his turn to travel. The Tornal tell me that if he cannot convince these others to help, then there is no one in Benthicalia or all the southern reefs who can.”

“A talker, eh?” Glint jetted over to the hovering envoy. “I’ll try not to bore you.”

“You already have,” declared the diplomat primly, curling his arms close around him.

Another might have been offended. Not Glint. He simply swam a slow circle around the octopod, inspecting him from every angle. “No healed wounds. No missing suckers. Mantle unmarred by scars. Not a fighter, then.”

“Only with words.” Oultm pivoted to meet the cuttlefish’s eyes. “Keep me alive and perhaps together we can do something to help my poor city.”

“Sure.” Glint jetted back to rejoin Chachel. “And if you fail, your presence will ease the burden of finding food on the way back.”

“Let’s not begin this treacherous trek in quarrel,” Chachel admonished his streamlined companion.

Though flashing red, Glint seemed amenable. “As you wish. I can wait until later.”

“Then it is settled.” Spreading his arms wide, Oxothyr came forward to embrace all three of them at once. “The hunters will ensure the safety of our emissary, and he will endeavor to sway our potential allies. Be aware as you interact with them,” he cautioned as he backed off, “that this time of year they are as likely to eat you as to engage in extended conversation.”

“We’ll try to keep our chat short then,” Glint commented blithely.

There was little time to spend on words of encouragement and offerings of hope. Poylee proved more reluctant than anyone to take leave of the travelers, even offering to accompany them. Saving Chachel the trouble of making such a decision, Oxothyr firmly quashed the notion.

“Even three is two too many for such a desperate business,” he explained. “The fewer in number who go out, the less likely they are to be detected.”

Fighting to keep from sobbing, Poylee was unwilling to grant the logic of the octopod’s argument. “Then why not send only two? Or just the lone envoy?”

Oxothyr could have declined to explain himself again and no one else would have questioned his judgment. But he was not that kind of shaman, to retreat behind an impenetrable aura of omnipotence. Though he had eight arms, he needed only three to tick off his reasons.

“First, a diplomat is not necessarily a fighter. In this case, obviously. Second, it would not be proper for Oultm to present himself without at least some kind of an escort. And lastly, it being critical that those whose assistance we seek be convinced that the well-being of all is at stake, it is vital that at least one merson go along to add the weight of his people’s involvement to the argument.”

The explanation was enough to subdue Poylee, if not to please her. She had to settle for embracing an unresponsive Chachel to such a degree that others had to pull her, albeit gently, away. As for Glint, the cuttlefish was farewelled with equal fervor by a female of his kind. And another. Then a few more. And then several more still. Looking on, a surprised Irina decided that she did not really know the cuttlefish any better than she did his merson cohort.

Reflecting the gravity of their mission, they were given a ritual send-off that was hopeful but restrained. One at a time, each member of the Tornal ceremonially entwined tentacles with Glint and Oultm, and tentacle to arm with Chachel. The two hunters were provided with the finest, sharpest weapons in the city’s armory, including bone spears with costly metal tips. Preserved, odorless, high-energy food was supplied in special low-drag carryalls.

Their actual departure was quick. Leave-taking took place via a small opening at the base of an unprepossessing section of south wall. The spralakers would expect anyone trying to flee Benthicalia to swim first for the surface, and if that route was blocked, to then head in a direction opposite the two besieging armies. That was where the majority of outlying spralaker-ray squadrons could be expected to focus their efforts. The area most likely to go unpatrolled was the ground; the one part of the realworld where spralakers and not mersons or manyarms held sway.

The minimizing of light being critical to slipping past enemy sentries unobserved, Glint and Oultm reduced their personal bioluminescence to the least amount possible. Chachel buried the small but bright glow-globes he carried inside the tightly woven pack slung across his back.

Then, having made their final farewells, they embarked on the desperate journey.

O O O

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.

The instant those narrow but deadly jaws closed on the body of the deceased hardshell, Chachel shot forward over the fringe-topped skull to plant the metal point of his spear in the center of the oarfish’s head, directly above and between the eyes.

The giant serpentine shape convulsed. The spralakers riding on its spine and flanks forgot about the lone merson in their midst as they fought with all their strength to hang onto their mortally wounded mount. Water displaced by the spasming oarfish sent Chachel tumbling backward as helplessly as if he had been caught in an upcurrent. When he was finally able to regain his balance, the oarfish and its remaining riders were a pale blue blur receding into the darkness in the direction of distant Benthicalia.

Reaching over a shoulder toward the spear quiver strapped to his back, he found that he had one weapon left. He would have to take care not to waste it. Arching his back and pointing his feet toward the mirrorsky, he swam straight down to where a flurry of bioluminescence showed the location of the ongoing battle below.

He arrived just in time. Swirling about a common axis, Glint and Oultm had been unable to find an escape route leading upward. Spralakers could not swim fast enough to catch any cephalopod in the open water, not even the languorous nautilus, but they could stay afloat well enough to keep quarry trapped beneath them. Slamming into them from above, Chachel surprised the hovering hardshells from behind. Striking out with his spear and knife, he put several of them down before his return was even noticed. That enabled the two hard-pressed manyarms to finally climb to a level where their much greater maneuverability meant they no longer presented easily cornered targets to their assailants.

Seeing that their quarry had succeeded in safely rising clear of the sand and that the oarfish on which they relied for transport had unaccountably gone missing, the surviving spralaker soldiers decided that no mere trio of softbodies was worth the sacrifice of any more of their lives. Breaking off the engagement, the hardshell survivors went scurrying off in the direction Benthicalia and their vanished mount. Chachel followed for awhile, harrying the retreat from above, until he realized that neither of his companions was participating in the rout. The envoy Oultm he expected to hang back, but where was Glint? It wasn’t like the cuttlefish not to share in a hard-won victory. Concerned, he spun about and returned to the scene of battle.

Above a dark sandy plain strewn with the corpses of dead spralakers whose bodies were already the subject of tentative nibbles from small scavengers he found the usually aloof Oultm attending solicitously to the cuttlefish. Something was not right. Coming closer, Chachel soon saw the source of the envoy’s concern.

There was not a lot of blood, but it was clear that Glint had been hurt. The cuttlefish’s eyes were half closed. Reflective of his pain, bands of white cascaded in waves down the length of his body from head to tail. Unexpectedly unsettled by a surge of emotion he had not experienced since his youth, Chachel swam close to his injured friend.

“How bad is it, Glint?”

Opening his eyes fully, the cuttlefish looked over at him. “I’ve felt better. The spralakers?”

Chachel jerked his head to his left, briefly glancing back over his shoulder. “Done. Finished. Gone. I don’t know if their fish will survive. The rest will have to walk all the way back to Benthicalia.”

“Would that we had the time to pick off each and every one of them from above. Ah well.” One eye shifted to regard the unexpectedly attentive Oultm. “Critical undertakings do not allow time for such pleasurable diversions as revenge.”

It was then Chachel noticed that his friend was missing an arm. He looked closer. Two. A merson suffering the loss of both arms would be condemned to a gradual, unpleasant death. Counting the absence of a third limb, Chachel swallowed.

Noticing the direction of his companion’s gaze, Glint made an effort to suppress the tell-tale bands of white pain that were shooting through his body. “Not to grieve, my friend.” Two tentacles longer than the rest flicked forward to just tap the tip of Chachel’s nose. “Both my capturing arms are intact. As to the loss of the others, well, better an arm than an eye, of which I like you have only two. I can still hunt.” A blush of pink flushed his mantle. “I may just tilt to the left a little while doing so, is all.”

They stayed there awhile as Chachel tended to Glint’s wounds. A concerned Oultm looked on. Only when the ends of the cuttlefish’s amputated limbs had been treated with sticky salve and patched with nudibranch intestines did they prepare to resume their journey, moving to recover the supplies they had been forced to drop in the heat of battle.

Preoccupied with thoughts of his fellow manyarm’s injuries as well as the challenging task that still lay before them, Oultm was picking his backpack off the sandy patch where it had come to rest when the badly wounded but by no means deceased spralaker that had been lying in wait in the sand in hopes of just such an opportunity jumped him from behind. The envoy never saw him. Engaged in recovering their own provisions, neither did Glint or Chachel. The emissary should have died right there, on the spot, his soft mantle torn apart by the spralaker’s glistening curved blade.

Instead, it was the hardshell that went down. The two spears that pierced its shell just above and between its eyes were short, but no less lethal for their abbreviated length. Hearing the assassin’s death cries, an alarmed Chachel and Glint rushed to the envoy’s side. Arriving to see that he was not alone, they slowed. One of Oultm’s saviors promptly pivoted in the water to face the two startled hunters.

“Oxothyr felt that any group attempting to escape Benthicalia that consisted of more than three individuals stood a good chance of drawing the attention of outriding spralaker patrols.” The famulus Sathi looked at Glint. “Apparently three was enough to do so.”

“I’m sorry we arrived too late to help in the fight.” Flashing his own cheerful internal glow, a curious Tythe swam up to inspect the damage to Glint’s arms. “Maybe the shaman can grow you some new ones.”

Bobbing in the water, Sathi concurred. “Oxothyr is very good at making things grow.”

Spreading his eight arms wide, Oultm turned red as he politely embraced first one squid and then the other. “You saved my life.”

“We know,” said Tythe matter-of-factly. “What matters is that this vital diplomatic mission will go on.”

As he watched the diverse assortment of cephalopods—squid, octopus, and cuttlefish—converse via an enviable fusion of words and color changes, Chachel found himself having to deal with a jumble of emotions. There was no doubt that the mission had been saved only thanks to the timely arrival of the two famuli. On the other hand, he experienced a rush of resentment at the realization that the shaman must have thought from the beginning that the two hunters might need looking-after and additional help. That this had turned out to be true did nothing to mitigate Chachel’s annoyance.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” he finally snapped as he swam off to pick up his pack. The quartet of manyarms watched him go.

“What’s wrong with your friend?” a puzzled Sathi asked Glint.

The injured cuttlefish was already feeling better. Manyarms healed very fast. He flashed a shrug. “Who can say? If I ever come to truly understand mersons and what motivates them, then I’ll be ready to proclaim myself master of all Oshenerth.”

Nearby, Tythe indicated agreement. “I think it must be all those bones they have to carry around inside them. Must grate on the nerve endings.”

“As do your interminable simpleton’s explanations on everyone else.” Rising slightly above the others, Sathi gazed in the direction of Benthicalia. “If the master was here he would say we are talking too much and moving too little. The spralakers who fled may encounter and inform others of their kind. If any return to this spot, we should not be here.”

Acknowledging the wisdom of the famulus’s observation, his fellow manyarms moved to gather up the rest of their own gear. As Chachel chose not to explain his perplexing mood change, his tentacled companions left him to his brooding. His humor gradually improved, and very soon thereafter the unexpectedly enlarged group was once more swimming hard into the darkness, into the west, and into the unknown.