by Lexi Ander
The megaliths around the arena pulsed with a brighter light. “More than what can be easily counted,” came the musical voice.
Sohm’lan glanced to the sentient blue-green gel lining the base of the columns. If his resolve had not already been firm, the knowledge that the Numina’s lack of action and empathy had led to the needless deaths of so many young would have been the final straw.
“So, the youngling you do not allow to die, you steal like a thief in the night or lure away from their families. We Mar’Sani have fables of the qalupalik who snatch young who wander off alone, taking them to deep water to keep forever. Do you enslave them to do your bidding? By what nefarious means did you lure the young away?”
Nethus snarled, his tentacles fanning out in a threat display. “How dare you! You cannot hold me accountable for what was done!”
“How long did Prince Canry cry for his meme, call his father’s name? Did you punish him for his longing?”
“I did no harm to Canry!” Nethus snarled.
The Numina were silent, but the outcasts gasped in shock, some jeered. Sohm’lan imagined them clutching their young close and giving the Numina distrustful glares.
Sohm’lan pressed on. “You took a youngling from his family without word, warning, or permission. You forcibly kept the youngling from the Vondorian pod with the exception of his sister born with the Longing. A geas chip was forced upon Princess Shaneva, and she was forbidden to speak about Prince Canry with any Mar’Sani. But you caught her defying you, did you not? What did you do to in retaliation?”
Nethus’s blue skin darkened, revealing his silent rage at Sohm’lan’s calculating question.
“Have you tortured so many people that you have forgotten what you did to her? Do I need to remind you?” Sohm’lan pressed.
“I am no monster! I do not make it a habit of punishing others,” Nethus snarled, his pacing increasing.
“You had no qualms about shearing the barbed spines off a youngling of only fifteen summers.” Sohm’lan ignored the crowd’s volatile reaction. “Nor did it keep you from descaling Princess Shaneva and chaining her to a rock in perauni-infested waters. How long did it take her to recover from where the fish had dined on her exposed, raw underskin? How long before her scales grew back, and she could see her family without them suspecting the abuse she received? Did you offer her medical care or shove her in a room to suffer more? Did you take Canry, who was no more than thirteen, and show him what would happen to him if he did not obey?”
A noise, the sound almost like the toll of a bell, sounded on the Mar’Sani side of the arena, drawing all eyes to Empress Ashari. Long, wicked knives were clutched in both her hands as she battered her fists against the invisible barrier of the gyre circle. With each strike, a peal rang from the energy-laden wall.
Her frustration and anger were evident in her murderous expression. Tori floated beside his meme, his face blank but his eyes gleamed like a warrior ready to spill blood, a reaction Sohm’lan had seen every time Mestor thought about what had happened to his sister. Empress Ashari opened her mouth, her scream of anguish, of vengeance was suddenly the only thing the crowd could hear.
“His punishment is mine to give! His future lies in my hands and my hands alone!” Empress Ashari demanded.
The chime of a tinkling bells sounded. “Granted,” came the gyre circle’s response.
Sohm’lan paused, unsure if that meant Nethus had already been judged. The challenge was not over since the barrier remained in place. Numina were banging on the quartz-railed boxes, attempting to leave or perhaps to fight, Sohm’lan was not sure which.
“No, Warlord Sohm’lan, this session is not over,” replied a melodious voice. “Making and accepting a challenge comes with a price that must be paid in full before the barriers come down. I have not been needed in such a long time, and I hunger.”
A chill slowly made its way up Sohm’lan’s spine. He glanced at Nethus, and it was obvious the gyre circle had only spoken to him. He hoped that did not bode ill for him.
Taking a fortifying breath, he turned his attention to Nethus. He pointed at Empress Ashari. “Count your blessings that Princess Shaneva named me her champion before her meme found out the extent of your trespasses. Otherwise Empress Ashari would have issued the challenge. I will beat you, perhaps cripple you. If she stood here, she would kill you then have your skin made into a cloak that she would wear when standing before the Numina, determining their fate.”
Nethus spun, snarling. The tines of his trident glowed a brilliant red before a wave of energy shot out of the end, hitting Sohm’lan in the chest. He was thrown back several meters where he hit the ground, eventually sliding to a stop among a cloud of white silt. He held his breath even though his scales felt as if they were on fire. He pushed off the floor and away from the murky water, not wanting to deal with sand in his lungs. He did not have time to work on removing any that caught in his gills. Spying his opponent, Sohm’lan’s grin was full of teeth.
Nethus moved shark-like, sleek and fluid, a predator designed to hunt in the Waters.
“I did not break any laws. Canry quickened completely and without a push or assistance, making him Numina. As such he is beholden to our laws, just like you are, and we do not mix with the land-loving young of Pegasus. We refuse to be tainted with the desire for dry land. We are of Poseidon, People of the Waters, and we refuse to become as twisted as you Mar’Sani. Dislike me all you want, land lover, but I have done no wrong.” Nethus’s voice was full of loathing.
Sohm’lan twirled his trident, allowing his energy to build. The Ancients said he was powerful, but Nethus was more experienced in this type of combat. He needed to make each strike count to the fullest. Nethus’s gaze was intent on his every movement.
“That is not what Poseidon said. What do you think he would do if he knew the full extent of your lies? Would you even know if he was watching now?”
Nethus startled, looking up into the tiers and Sohm’lan leveled the trident, ‘pushing’ energy from the ball of quickening at his core through the buzzing weapon. The energy slammed into Nethus’s chest and the barnacles on his black armor burst into dust as Nethus spun feet over head backward. He hit the ground hard, silt billowing upward in a thick cloud.
He was done with the verbal sparring, ready for the confrontation to be over with. He cautiously circled the sand cloud, searching for a sign of Nethus’s blue form. How long could he hold his breath?
The sharp pointed tines of Nethus’s trident jabbed at him from the debris and he deflected the thrust with his own weapon and spun, lashing out with his heavy tail where he thought Nethus should be. His strike connected with a solid mass and at the same time, he twisted the tines of his trident in an effort to wrench Nethus’s weapon away. But somehow the skink reversed the movement, and Sohm’lan almost lost his trident. Instinctively, he kicked back, but being underwater the motion only carried a fraction of power. Instead of breaking bones, he only knocked the breath from Nethus, leaving Nethus choking on sand. Sohm’lan disengaged and moved away to regroup.
Nethus swam to clear water, and they circled each other, striking and parrying repeatedly. Though he was learning how his opponent moved, how quickly Nethus could respond, he waited for the expected fatigue. He was inexperienced fighting in water and during practice his endurance was far from excellent. He expected to tire quickly, but his energy did not lag.
Unfortunately, neither did Nethus’s. Sohm’lan’s grin was all teeth as he considered his next move. Both Tori and Azaes claimed Nethus was a hothead. Sohm’lan would use that to his advantage, again.
“Come, youngling, confess your wrongdoings so the adults may hand out your punishment.”
“You impertinent whelp of Triton!” Nethus’s blue skin took on a dark, purplish hue.
Nethus twirled his trident in a hypnotic flourish and when the tines faced Sohm’lan, he paused as if he expected something to happen. Excitement rushed through Sohm’lan at this unprecedente
d opportunity. The crowd roared; the telepathic sound rang in his head so loudly he wanted to rub his earholes. Without any artsy flourish, Sohm’lan simply pointed his trident at Nethus and pushed with his quickened core. The crackle of energy zipped down his arms into the weapon’s shaft, shooting out through the pointed tines. Nethus was braced for the attack, twisting to the side but he was still caught by the blast and pushed backward. Sohm’lan hit him again, and again, moving forward with every push, closing the distance even as Nethus continued to fall back, barely holding onto his weapon.
When Nethus’s back hit one of the standing stones, Sohm’lan pressed the trident until Nethus’s throat was bracketed by two of the tines. “Yield,” Sohm’lan demanded. The exertion of using his quickening caused him to feel out of breath and tired. His father had warned that he would need to pace himself, else he would needlessly exhaust his energy stores. But if he could end this fight quickly, then he would take the chance.
The color of Nethus’s skin lightened to bright blue. “You land lovers are such fools.”
Too late, Sohm’lan noticed Nethus had a firm grip on his weapon. He thought Nethus was out of energy or that the gyre circle had blocked his ability to use it. Not that his assumption was wrong, but the trident was still a formidable weapon, and Nethus had expertly lured him closer by feigning weakness. With his free hand, Nethus grabbed Sohm’lan’s trident behind the tines, not allowing him to pull it away.
Sohm’lan released his weapon and tried to dodge the Nethus’s deadly thrust. The hard points screeched down Sohm’lan’s chest plate, then caught at his waist between the two armor pieces. The sharp edges bit through his scales but not deep enough to hook him.
When he turned to escape, he did not put enough distance between them, and the tailless skink jumped onto his back. Nethus clung like a barnacle, bringing the shaft of the trident around. The staff of heavy metal pressed hard against Sohm’lan’s exposed throat. He fumbled, grabbing the length of metal on either side of Nethus’s hands.
“You thought yourself clever, superior to me. For centuries I have been fighting beings more frightening than you. You are a mere youngling with no experience, and you think you can take me down?”
Nethus pulled as Sohm’lan attempted to push the staff away, but Nethus had leverage. The gills at the back of his throat became constricted and Nethus would merely have to wait for Sohm’lan to pass out. He turned his head, the shaft only squashing one side of his neck. His breathing was not completely blocked, but he was tiring. He needed to dislodge Nethus from his perch. The skink’s tentacles slipped around Sohm’lan’s face and he knew he had to do something quickly.
His only option was to use his spines. He was not of any royal bloodline so his barbs were not poisonous, but if any slid into the gaps in Nethus’s armor and pierced unprotected skin, they would still hurt him. Bracing himself against the pain to come, Sohm’lan gritted his teeth and he flexed his barbs. Predictably, many broke against Nethus’s armor. The agony from the snapping spines was excruciating, but if he was lucky… He bellowed. The wave of agony hit him like a tsunami and caused spots to form in his vision.
Nethus made a pained noise and thankfully dropped his trident. His tentacles went lax, letting go long enough for Sohm’lan to take a full breath. He grabbed the hilts of the two belt knives that were almost as long as short swords. The softly-vibrating hum the weapons gave when he gripped them made him want to believe they were alive. The blades of white metal were flecked with silver, elegantly curved, widening to twice the width in the middle before tapering into a point. He squeezed the black hilts, the plain guards pressing into the tops of his fists.
His reprieve was short-lived. Nethus wrapped his large muscular arm around Sohm’lan’s throat and put enough pressure that he could not work his gills at the back of his throat. Before Nethus’s tentacles blocked his vision, Sohm’lan spied that writhing mass of tentacles again, but this time it was underneath the people, at the edge of the arena’s inner circle. One tentacle larger around than Sohm’lan’s body passed through the electrical shield causing shimmering ripples to pool outward. Then he saw nothing.
Snarling, Sohm’lan slashed with his knives. He did not attempt to find the weakness between the plates of Nethus’s armor. No, he went for Nethus’s unprotected head. There was no finesse in his actions. He swiped at the tentacles blinding him and Nethus tightened his arm around Sohm’lan’s neck. He did not stop. He was relentless, cutting and bucking even as his lungs burned from the lack of oxygen and his back was a throbbing mass of pain from broken barbs. Nethus thrashed with him, exchanging arms which gave Sohm’lan a chance to breathe. Somehow Nethus anchored Sohm’lan’s feet, then attempted to bend him over backward. He tried to scream when his broken barbs scraped across Nethus’s armor.
Suddenly he was released but the darkness before his sight did not abate. He inhaled on reflex and immediately regretted it as the befouled water burned a path through his lungs. Ink!
Sohm’lan rolled, trying to leave the toxic water. Even though Nethus had tentacles, he had not considered that the hagfish could use ink. He lost all sense of direction. The ink cloud had to be massive. He continued to hold his breath despite the tainted water trapped in throat. If he inhaled any more ink, he could start hallucinating. What had already entered his body burned the sensitive tissues of his mouth, throat, and lungs. If the irritation went untreated, then his lungs would blister, suffocating him in a different way. If he lived, then the scarring of the tissue would cause other problems. Krakens were usually the only creatures in the Waters of Poseidon that used ink as a weapon. Now he knew better.
Picking a direction, he swam hard and almost immediately hit the sandy floor. Turning, he used his legs and tail to push himself in the opposite direction. In a couple of kicks, he emerged from the dark cloud. He gasped in relief and pulled the clear water through his lungs. He breathed hard as he trembled with exhaustion. He needed to end this fight now.
On the opposite side of the arena floor, the tentacled being had somehow shrunk. He was not quite surprised since Wanderer had turned into a large kraken when they entered the Waters. But the being who had been watching them had been massive, giving Sohm’lan the impression it was as large as the gyre circle, if not bigger. Now they were only a little larger than Nethus. They had a head, four arms, and a torso on the upper body with their lower body a mass of tentacles that seemed to spill over everything around them. Nethus argued, arms waving angrily at the person. After he took care of Nethus, he would find out who the other person was.
Blades still gripped in his fists, Sohm’lan swam hard and fast, concentrating on sending his quickened power through his arms to his weapons, using them the same way he had wielded the trident. The silver speckles twinkled, and the edge of the pale blade turned to white fire.
Seeming to sense he was in imminent danger, Nethus turned a moment too late. The ends of the knifes hit Nethus’s black breastplate, and Sohm’lan used his power to propel Nethus into a standing stone. Upon impact, Sohm’lan struck hard with his energy. The breastplate shattered and his knives sank into Nethus’s unprotected torso.
He snarled in Nethus’s face, barely noticing that the tentacles on the front half of Nethus’s head were sheared off, the ends uneven and ragged. Nethus’s color bled out to almost white.
Sohm’lan bared his teeth in triumph. “You will never touch or speak to my waterson or waterdaughter again.”
Nethus said nothing, his eyes rounding as a shadow fell over them. Sohm’lan waited, prepared for a blow but determined to gut Nethus if the other being attacked him. But no one laid a hand on him. The being Nethus had been arguing with circled around and approached from an angle that allowed Sohm’lan to see them. This close, he noticed their barrel-shaped torso was gray and white, but like Canry with a mixture of thick hide and patterned scales. Their four hands were spread in a placating gesture.
Dark eyes framed by spiraled, green foliage bore into him but held no ang
er or malice. “You can let him go, son. You have already won the challenge.”
He blinked when the circle did not broadcast the stranger’s statement. “Who are you?” Sohm’lan panted, thankful for telepathy since his mouth and throat were already swelling.
“I am Poseidon. Wanderer, Whirlwind, and Light Bringer say you have been searching for me.”
Sohm’lan laughed coldly, feeling off kilter. Perhaps he had taken in more ink than he originally thought. His arms trembled and his fingers had grown numb around the knife hilts. Surely Poseidon would not simply walk up and introduce himself? Sohm’lan’s sight blurred, and he blinked several times trying to clear his eyes.
The male looked up and gestured to the Mar’Sani seating above their heads. “The Princeling and I have met before. He can confirm my identity.” He looked around the arena at the outcasts and Numina. “I believe there is much we should discuss.” There was a wealth of disappointment in that last statement. Would the displeasure of this being be enough to change the Numina?
When Monticore flooded into the arena, rushing to Sohm’lan, he relaxed minutely. Looking back at his prey, Sohm’lan stared hard into Nethus’s disbelieving eyes. “This youngling believes too highly of his battle prowess.” He jerked his knives out of Nethus. If he could have spit, he would have aimed for Nethus’s face. Instead he put distance between them. Monticore surrounded him and drew him farther away, hands on him, holding him so that he did not have to expend energy to tread water.
“Father…” Nethus clutched his wounds, blood making the water murky. “What did you hear?”
Poseidon’s expression turned stormy, and he glared at the Numina section of the arena. “I heard everything!” his voice boomed and Sohm’lan flinched, rubbing his earhole even knowing it would not help. Poseidon turned back to Nethus. “You should have told me.”