Oshenerth

by Alan Dean Foster

  He coughed lightly. “Oxothyr, Master, we come to you on a matter of …”

  There was a flash of light. For a second or two, nothing could be seen within the chamber save splinters of shattered indigo. As Chachel’s shocked sight gradually returned, the mage and his patient once more came into focus. Only this time the shaman was no longer enveloping the changeling.

  He was right up in Chachel’s face.

  When riled, Oxothyr could prove as domineering as any creature in the realworld. He was now so riled. Sparks of bioluminescent lightning flared from the tips of his tentacles.

  “WHO DARES TO INTRUDE ON …?” Recognizing his visitors, he broke off and lowered his voice. “Oh, it’s you two. Again.” Ropy arms that had been spread threateningly wide now coiled. “What is it this time?” Behind him, the changeling Irina had drawn her spread arms in to her sides. Blinking, she began to wake up.

  Recovering his poise while striving to pretend he had not lost it, Chachel backed water. “Your sageness, we were hunting the outer reef when this refugee,” he indicated the barely alive rainbow runner, “came fleeing in our direction, pursued by silkies. We saved him. What he told us in return seemed so hard to believe that we knew the only way to determine the truth of it was to bring him directly to you as quickly as possible.” He finned further backward, putting more space between himself and the still irate shaman. “This we have done.”

  As he retreated, he found himself gazing not at Oxothyr but past him. Having recovered from the inert state of healing into which the wizard had placed her, Irina was coming to join them. When she met his gaze with a directness that Chachel found unexpectedly unsettling, he hurriedly looked away. Nor did he offer a formal greeting. She reacted to his indifference with a mix of irritation and coolness. That was fine with him. Their mutual distaste for one another was not the issue here.

  “What’s wrong with him? Or her.” She nodded in the direction of the rainbow runner, whose wounds Oxothyr was actively inspecting.

  “Shark attack,” he explained tersely. Every time he met her she seemed less and less a threat. How could one fear a creature that could not even tell a male fish from female? “And if what he has told us on the way back is truth, also spralakers.”

  Her brow wrinkled up. “What’s a spralaker?”

  “You’re likely to find out,” Glint put in. “Or if you’re lucky, you won’t.” The cuttlefish would have elaborated, but went silent when the wounded visitor started to speak.

  Its words were soft and threatened to pass unheard through the water that surrounded him, but as there was so little ambient noise within the coral chamber even Irina could make them out.

  “I am Zesqu the Fleet. My friends are dead, my school become food. Four others fled with me. Two had their skulls smashed by the spralakers who extinguished Shakestone. Two were caught and consumed by the opportunists who stood apart from the battle waiting to pick off any who tried to flee. Only I am left, and soon I will become one with the powdered coral that makes the sand.” The silver-sided fish shuddered with the pain of his injuries and the agony of retelling.

  “Shakestone is a strong village, well-populated and defended. How could mere spralakers raze it?” Reaching out with a tentacle tip, Oxothyr traced a line of dark blue along the rainbow runner’s right flank. The visitor’s pain appeared to subside momentarily. His voice grew stronger.

  “These were spralakers, but they were not ‘mere.’ And they fought with a ferocity and a skill never seen before in their kind.”

  Glint edged close to the intent Irina. “Spralakers rarely fight together. When they try to do so, they invariably end up fighting among themselves. They would never dare to strike at an organized community unless they could gather overwhelming strength in numbers. Even allowing for that, what the herald says makes no sense. I cannot ever remember hearing tell of a spralaker attack on a village as robust and well-defended as Shakestone. Something’s up. Spralakers are tough, but slow, and they can’t really swim. That’s why they’re normally a danger only to wandering children or the solitary elderly.”

  “But not this time,” she murmured.

  “No,” the cuttlefish bubbled. “Apparently not this time. Something has changed.”

  “They attacked during the night,” the rainbow runner disclosed. “Shakestone is known as a safe haven. Few guards were out. The surprise was complete. Mersons asleep had their bones broken, resident manyarms had their eyes and their siphons torn out. I myself saw only a little of this, and I saw too much.” For the pain the visitor was feeling now not even one as skilled as Oxothyr had a salve.

  “I still fail to understand.” The shaman’s tone was gentle, compassionate. “You said they were not ‘mere’ spralakers.”

  A merson’s eyes might have bulged. Those of a fish could not. “There were the familiar local spralakers you would know and recognize.” His voice grew shakier as he explained, as he remembered. “But there were also spralakers of size and shape and kind never before encountered. Huge they were! Monstrous, overpowering, distorted as if they had been inspired by nightmare. Living, rampaging bad dreams! And they worked together, fought together. They had weaponry never seen before.

  “The spears and arrows of the defenders could not penetrate such thick armor. Short swords and knives broke against them. They sliced manyarms in half as if they were starfish and broke the necks of those mersons who awoke to confront them. The rest of us who were not merson or manyarm hid deep within Shakestone’s reef or swam for our lives. Most did not make it.” His voice, briefly rejuvenated, now slowed once more. “Maybe I am the only one.”

  He stopped speaking. Tail and fins ceased their rippling. The colors that trailed from his tail faded away. Reaching out with two arms, Oxothyr shook the herald as firmly as he dared.

  “Afterward, Zesqu. What happened afterward?”

  Fins fluttered once more, albeit feebly. “I—I don’t know, shaman of Sandrift. I and the others swam like we had never swam before. Cut down, cut down. I saw them die. Even now I can see the whiteness of their flesh flaking away from their bodies as the silkies shook them. They were not from my school, but even so …” His voice drifted, then came back.

  “Shakestone is no more. I am only a feeder and a schooler, not a thinker. But I can speak the truth of what I saw. From the beginning the attack never faltered, not even when the remaining defenders gathered in front of the village’s main hall with their offspring huddled behind them. The last screams carried a long ways.”

  Oxothyr moved back. “I fear this will not stop with Shakestone. Something in the world is out of kilter. All spralakers are monstrous and distorted, but they do not form armies, they do not employ tactics. A spralaker’s strategy consists of snapping at anything that comes within reach of its arms, and then eating or retreating as circumstances dictate. Some are large, but you would never call them huge.” He turned back to the visitor. “You said they were overpowering. How overpowering? In what way other than size? You said they used new kinds of weapons. Can you describe them?”

  Zesqu the rainbow runner did not answer. Not because he was pondering a reply. Because he was dead.

  The ensuing silence that filled the spherical chamber was complete. Even the tiny shrimp who chattered and clicked away in the smaller niches and crevices had been frightened into silence. Eventually Oxothyr broke the stillness.

  “Sathi, Tythe!”

  Shooting into the study, the shaman’s famuli caught sight of the dead rainbow runner floating in its center. “Master?” Tythe inquired uncertainly.

  An octopod arm reluctantly indicated the dead herald. “As this selfless friend’s work is done, so is he. Take him out and scatter him to the world, so that as many as possible may, should they wish, partake of his decency.” One glistening eye focused hard on the two assistants. “See that you share. I’ll know if you keep him for yourselves.”

  “Yes, Master,” Sathi dutifully acknowledged. Coming forward, the two squid wra
pped the dead body in their tentacles and retreated back the way they had come. As soon as they were gone the great octopus turned to the others. His body had turned a deep green and was now inscribed with an intricacy of dark brown symbols. With a start, Irina saw that they were unambiguous ideographs. By manipulating the chromatophores in his skin, the shaman was writing upon himself, utilizing his own body as a sketchpad. While she could not make sense of the cephalopodan script, Chachel and Glint were paying close attention to the shifting symbols.

  “What are we to do now, Oxothyr?” A hovering Glint eyed the mage intently.

  Looking up from reading the shaman’s epidermis, Chachel squinted at his companion out of his good eye and said quietly but firmly. “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

  The mage chose to ignore the hunter’s disclaimer. “For some time now, I have been troubled by auguries and portents the likes of which are worrisome in their lack of precedent.” As he spoke, the ambulatory symbols on his body were being devoured by a slow darkening of his skin, as if a shadow was spreading over the words he had laboriously called into being. “I have alluded to them before and can catch only glimpses of what they might mean. Some are startling in their implications. Others merely terrifying. All are unsettling.” As he looked up at his small audience the bioluminescence that illuminated the chamber seemed to shrink slightly in upon itself.

  “I fear that this assault on innocent Shakestone is but part and parcel of something far greater and more evil than we can imagine.”

  Surprising everyone, Chachel suddenly spun in the water to point a finger at a startled Irina. “It has to do with her, doesn’t it? The changeling is a harbinger of destruction.”

  “Why you greasy, self-centered, bad-mannered, arrogant fish-man!” an outraged Irina stammered. Another thus insulted might well have reached for her knife. Instead, she settled for cutting him with her eyes.

  Oxothyr raised an arm for silence. His reaction was calm and reasoned. “Though it is true that the changeling’s appearing among us is an event exceptional, I do not feel nor do I sense any correlation between her arrival and what has taken place at Shakestone.” He turned to face her. “That may yet change, as may my opinion. Or it may not. But of one thing I am certain: change surely has come to this part of Oshenerth, and much of it unwelcome.”

  Trying to change the subject, Glint waved all of his arms for attention. “So what are we to do, inker of souls?”

  Oxothyr’s mantle pulsed. “For certain we cannot simply sit back, and weigh up, and hope that this will go away of its own accord. In order to learn and to know, I would journey to Shakestone myself. But I fear more than that must be done. I am convinced by what the herald told us that if we do not respond aggressively and appropriately, then a response of a different kind will eventually find us here. It is always better to be proactive.”

  Chachel eyed the shaman askance. “I think I grasp your meaning, venerable Oxothyr. I hope I do not.”

  “Would that I could confirm your hopeful ignorance rather than your perception, hunter.” Reaching out, the octopod draped an arm over the merson’s left shoulder. Uncharacteristically, and reflecting the significance of the moment, Chachel did not shrug it off. “Regrettably, you see the truth. We have no choice. Either we confront these invading spralakers on our time and terms, or we will surely do so on theirs.”

  Glint rose skyward to execute a perfect somersault that just did clear the overhanging coral. “War!”

  “Your rush to grandiosity does you no credit, manyarm.” Oxothyr’s tone was disapproving. “A punishing rejoinder may be in order, yes. In contrast, ‘war’ implies a generality for which we as yet have no grounds. It implies a specific enemy for which we have no name. ‘Spralakers’ is insufficient.”

  “So far,” Chachel murmured softly. The shaman did not hear him.

  “What are you going to do?” Feeling more than a little overwhelmed by the turn events had taken, a wide-eyed Irina hovered nearby.

  “Do?” Oxothyr turned a great gold-flecked eye on the bewildered changeling. “Why, we are going to do what now must be done. Not only because it is necessary, but because it is right.” As he settled himself down to rest on a rocky ledge that projected from one wall, his words were accentuated by gesticulations of his multiple arms.

  Irina could not keep from thinking that watching one Oxothyr elaborating was the equivalent of watching four Italians arguing.

  “Though the brave messenger died before he had time to go into detail, I believe that whatever foulness has befallen Shakestone will not be satisfied with its annihilation alone. Perpetrators of destruction are emboldened by conquest, not sated.”

  “Then you think these spralakers, if indeed that’s what they are, will come here, to Sandrift?” Chachel was not so disinterested in the life of his fellow mersons as to neglect to look after his own interests, limited though they might be.

  The shaman did not hesitate. “I do. Therefore, it is not only just that we confront these invaders as soon as possible, but prudent that we do so as far from home as we can.”

  Glint’s arms twisted together to form a single tight coil, a thick fleshy cable, in front of him. It was, Irina would learn, a particularly vibrant gesture of cephalopodan emphasis. His body turned silver.

  “If these spralakers choose to continue their depredations they are sooner or later likely to encounter citizens from Siriswirll.”

  Oxothyr’s body bobbed gently in the water behind his head as both turned a responsive mauve. “For a persistent joker you show some grasp of stratagems, shot-arm. Yes, I fear that Siriswirll may be next to receive the attentions of these unknown marauders. Worse, those good people may be unaware of what has transpired at Shakestone. Unlike ourselves, they may not have had the benefit of hearing from one of that unfortunate community’s remaining survivors.”

  “We have to warn them!” Blasting water from his siphon, Glint began swimming in tight, agitated circles.

  “I suppose.” Chachel made no attempt to conceal his disinclination.

  “As the only community of size between Sandrift and Shakestone,” Oxothyr continued, “Siriswirll presents an obvious target for these raiders, as well as our best chance of stopping them before they reach Sandrift.” Brooding, he curled his arms into a ball around him. “And also perhaps of providing some clues to the nature of the greater concern that troubles my days and interrupts my sleep.”

  Glint finally stopped spinning. Maybe cuttlefish were immune to dizziness, but she was not, a queasy Irina realized. Just watching the multi-armed hunter’s antics had left her feeling nauseous. To settle her stomach, she concentrated on something that was not moving at all: a cluster of bright pink lights that shone from the hindquarters of several speculated worms attached to one wall. A trick used to counter seasickness, it turned out to work equally well underwater.

  “We are honor bound to do so!” Glint shouted his approval. Both long hunting tentacles snapped out to their full length, the fleshy pads on their ends quivering. “Onward to Siriswirll and to victory!”

  “What victory?” Having carried out their master’s order to efficiently and respectfully dispose of the body of the deceased rainbow runner, Sathi preceded his colleague Tythe back into the study.

  Spinning, the energized cuttlefish reached out to the famulus. In a confusion of arms, the squid fought him off. “Master Oxothyr, has this fat flutterer gone mad?”

  “He is merely excited.” The shaman explained calmly. “Such demeanor will change when death is confronted. Combat is not like hunting,” he informed the excited cuttlefish gravely. “It is nasty, methodical, unpleasant work. Your enthusiasm will flag though your efforts must not.” Peering past the suitably abashed cephalopod, his gaze fastened on the silently staring Chachel. “You, hunter, will of course remain behind while your companion eagerly contributes to the defense of both communities.”

  Chachel refused to be baited. “Gladly will I do so. We each of us follow our own current
.”

  “Truly.” Oxothyr’s tone betrayed no hint of condemnation. It did not have to.

  That would have been the end of the gathering, if not for the fact that the opinion of one other present remained to be given. Drifting off to one side, Irina found herself more at a loss than ever. On top of everything else that had happened to her, it now appeared that she was about to be caught up in a fight that was not only none of her business, it did not even involve her species. Or for that matter, she told herself, her world.

  Except that this was her world now, and for how long neither she nor anyone in it had any way of knowing. She could listen, observe, and ignore those aspects of it that did not directly demand her participation. Or, she could involve herself. Dare she? Everything of which Oxothyr had just spoken reeked of danger, even unto the risk of dying. What it was all about she did not know. She did not even know what a “spralaker” was. Why should she risk her life to participate in a fight against something she could not even identify?

  It was with more than a little surprise, therefore, that she found herself paddling slightly forward and announcing, “I was going to drown. No, that’s not right,” she corrected herself. “I was drowning. I owe you all my life.”

  Arms crossed over his chest, Chachel grunted softly, not looking in her direction. “You don’t owe me anything, changeling.”

  “All right then,” she retorted curtly, “I owe Glint and Oxothyr my life. They’re part of Sandrift, and Sandrift has taken me in when I most needed help.” She turned to face the silently staring sack of colorful flesh, powerful suckers, and rarified intellect that was resting on the coral ledge. “I don’t know what I can do, or even if I can do anything, but I’m ready to help in any way I can.”

  “You?” Chachel’s tone was biting as he let his arms drop. “What can you, a changeling, possibly do to help? You’re still learning how to breathe properly.” His eyes raked her barely clad form. “You don’t look like much of a fighter to me.”