Queen of the Depths Read online

  With that accomplished, the reptiles rounded on the surviving mermen. The topaz clawed at Hetham. He jerked out of the way and swam backward.

  The retreat carried him into water where the drifting blood wasn’t quite so thick, permitting a glimpse of the battle as a whole. What he saw came as no surprise but wrung his heart nonetheless.

  The army of the alliance was finished, Dukars, high mages, morkoths, mermen, shalarins, sea-elves, and tritons all annihilated, or maybe, in the case of a few lucky folk, put to flight.

  We tried, he thought, perhaps addressing the multitude of folk who’d depended on them for their deliverance. I swear by the tides, we tried. But we just couldn’t stop them. No one could.

  Still, he had a duty to fight on, for these last few moments of life. He aimed his trident at the topaz’s mask. If it bit at him, he would try again to put out its luminous yellow eye.

  But when he met its gaze, pain exploded through his head, paralyzing him. Before he could recover, its fangs pierced him through.

  CHAPTER 1

  Anton Marivaldi sighed at the aching pleasure as the pert, chattering brunette masseuse thumped and kneaded his muscles. He suspected that after she’d hammered all the stiffness and tension out, she might offer even more intimate services, and if so, he intended to purchase them.

  He’d earned his amusements, hadn’t he? First had come tendays of imposture, of bearing up under the knowledge that even the tiniest slip could expose him. But he hadn’t slipped, and the masquerade had ended successfully in a clatter of flashing blades. His superiors had paid him well for his efforts, and he intended to squander every copper before they ordered him back into the game.

  The hot, soapy bath, fragrant with scented oil, did feel truly delicious. The attendant, her thin cotton shift soaked transparent and clinging to her curves, scrubbed his shoulders, and the pressure of her hands slid him down a little deeper into the polished marble tub.

  He frowned, suddenly uneasy. Going deeper—for some reason, that was bad, wasn’t it? And now that he thought about it, hadn’t the bath been a massage just a moment before?

  The attendant shoved him down with startling strength, submerging him completely. He thrashed, trying to shake off her grip, and in the process, broke free of the entire dream.

  Reality was equally alarming, because he was still underwater. He flailed, kicked, and stroked toward the brightness above. After a moment, his head broke the surface. He coughed and retched out the warm, salty liquid he’d obliviously inhaled and, when he was able, gasped in air instead.

  That took the edge off his terror, and he recalled his float, three chunks of broken plank pegged to a crosspiece. He’d encountered the flotsam, adrift as he was adrift, an hour or so into his ordeal. It was the only reason he hadn’t drowned long ago.

  He cast about for it. The hot summer sun danced on the blue, rippling surface of the Sea of Fallen Stars, making him squint. After a few anxious moments, he spotted the float. It hadn’t drifted far. Even in his weakened state—parched, starved, gashed arm feeble—he could probably swim to it and heave himself back on top.

  But then again, why bother? Why prolong the misery when it would be easier just to let the float slip out of reach? He doubted drowning was a particularly easy death, but it would be over quickly.

  No, curse it, he wouldn’t give up! A ship could still happen along, or he might still drift within reach of land. He paddled to the makeshift raft, gripped the splintery wood, and dragged himself back on top of it.

  The effort exhausted him. He had to lie panting and trembling for a while before he found the energy to lift his head, peer down into the water, and croak, “You could have woken me when I first slipped off the float. Or helped me get back to it. Or, if you want me dead, it was a perfect opportunity to attack. Just do something.”

  Swimming several yards below the surface, the creature stared back at him.

  It was somewhat human in form, but slender as an elf, with dark blue skin and long, webbed fingers and toes. A proud black dorsal fin ran from its hairless brow all the way down to its rump, and some sort of white pendant hung around its neck. Round, dark goggles shielded its eyes. Though Anton had lived his entire life in the environs of the Sea of Fallen Stars, he didn’t know much about the various sentient races dwelling beneath the waves. Few of his species did. But if he wasn’t mistaken, his unwanted companion was a shalarin.

  Whatever it was, he’d apparently attracted its attention at some point during the night, because he’d first noticed it gliding beneath him shortly after sunrise. Initially, given that shalarins didn’t have an especially sinister reputation, he’d hoped it would help him. When it failed to do so spontaneously, he’d tried to entreat it via pantomime.

  The creature hadn’t responded in any way, and he’d wondered if it meant him harm. Though more adept with a sword or dagger, he had a small talent for sorcery, and had considered striking first with one of his spells. Ultimately, though, he’d decided he’d do better to save them for a moment when he knew for a fact he was in peril.

  Often, though, the urge to lash out returned, simply because the shalarin’s lurking presence was unsettling. At times, it even felt like mockery of his plight. What did the cursed creature want, anyway? Was it simply curious to see how long it would take him to die? If so … well, in the course of his duties, Anton had witnessed more than his share of brutality, but this sort of patient, passive cruelty was something new in his experience.

  The sun hammered down until he wished it would set, even though once it did, no passing ship could possibly see him. He fought the impulse to drink saltwater and drowsed for a bit. Then he gave a start and cast wildly about.

  For a second, he couldn’t tell what had jolted him back to full wakefulness. Maybe he’d simply felt himself slipping off the float again.

  No. After hours of hovering close, the shalarin was swimming away. That was what had snagged his attention, even in his somnolent state.

  Had the creature finally gotten bored with watching him suffer? His instincts warned him no, and they were evidently right, for after the shalarin had gone a ways, it turned and oriented on him once more. It was still interested but had apparently deemed it prudent to put more distance between them.

  Was it because something was about to happen to him? He looked around, saw nothing, then dunked his face in the water to better scan the blue-green depths below. A soft, rounded thing resembling a huge sack shot up at him like a stone from a sling. Long tentacles lined with suckers trailed behind it, undulating as if to help propel it along.

  After a moment of stunned incomprehension, Anton realized it was an octopus, albeit the biggest specimen he’d ever seen. Indeed, more than big enough to make a meal of a lone man afloat.

  Heart pounding, he reviewed his modest store of spells. Some were of no use in combat, while others wouldn’t function underwater. But a pulse of pure force might work. He fumbled the necessary talisman—a bit of ram’s horn—from his pocket and swept it through the proper arcane figure. Praying that his raw throat and thick tongue could still enunciate the words with the precision required, he recited the incantation.

  Power sang like a note from a crystal bell. Visible as a streak of rippling distortion, magic shot through the water. It bashed a momentary dent in the octopus’s softness and scraped its hide.

  The cephalopod recoiled. You see, Anton thought, I’m dangerous. Go eat something else.

  The octopus hesitated for another moment then evidently decided its wound was inconsequential. At any rate, it hurtled onward.

  Anton yanked his dagger, the straight, double-edged steel blade coated in gleaming silver, from its sheath. He’d dropped his sword when he’d first gone into the water, lest its weight drag him down. But at least he’d retained this weapon, and it would double as the necessary focus for another spell.

  He recited the complex rhyme and sketched the proper sign. The dagger point carved the sigil in scarlet light on the ai
r. A second knife, glowing red like the rune, shimmered into existence in front of the octopus and stabbed into its bulbous body.

  Surely now it would turn away or, failing that, linger to try and fight the shining animate knife instead of charging on to close with Anton.

  But that was not the case. It veered past the red blade and raced upward. The flying dagger pursued and might get in another jab or two before it winked out of existence, but Anton doubted that would be enough to save him.

  The shalarin drifted, kicking and stroking lazily, watching.

  All but certain he lacked the time, Anton nonetheless tried to materialize a second blade of force. In his haste, though, he stumbled over the mystical words, botching the spell, and the gathering power dissipated in useless stink and sizzle. Then tentacles came writhing and swirling to grab him.

  He struggled to avoid them, but his scrap of timber was too small; he had no space to maneuver or retreat. He managed to drag his entire body up out of the water, to kneel atop the float, for an instant rocking and bobbing precariously. Then a loop of tentacle found his ankle, yanked tight as a garrote, and wrenched him under the surface.

  Whether it realized or not, the octopus only needed to hold him under until he ran out of air, and with more of its tentacles whirling to wrap around him, it had an excellent chance of doing so. Floundering, his leg already snared, he had no hope of avoiding them all. He had to concentrate on keeping his dagger arm free.

  He twisted and whipped it about to keep it from being entangled. Ringed suckers cut him as they gripped the rest of his body, and he jerked at the pain. The tentacles constricted like pythons, threatening to squeeze the precious, dwindling air from his lungs.

  Round, dark little eyes staring, the octopus pulled him toward its jagged, gaping beak. He hacked and sliced at its arms. The dagger’s maker had enchanted the edge to a supernatural keenness, and it bit deep, maiming the creature’s limbs and severing one entirely.

  Still it seemed unlikely to prove sufficient. But as the octopus hauled him within reach of its mouth, its whole body spasmed, and the flailing tentacles loosened. Anton tried to squirm upward out of the coils.

  The tentacle wrapped around his ankle still had a grip on him and anchored him in place. He bent over, sawed at it until the tough, dense flesh parted, then swam upward.

  Suddenly the need to breathe overpowered him. He expelled the stale contents of his lungs in an explosion of bubbles and helplessly inhaled. At the same instant, though, his head broke the surface.

  More luck: the float was still within reach. Wheezing and praying he’d hurt the octopus badly enough to discourage it, he struggled toward the wood. He set the dagger atop the small platform then started to drag himself up.

  A tentacle wrapped around his leg and jerked downward. The sudden motion rocked the float. The knife tumbled off the edge and vanished into the sea.

  Panic rose, threatening to swamp his reason, and he strained to push it down and think. He didn’t have the strength to keep the octopus from dragging him back under water, and he didn’t have a weapon anymore, either. How, then, could he save himself?

  There was one way, maybe. But it required him to free up a hand.

  It was hard enough to hold on with both of them. As soon as he let go with the right, the strain on the left, and the arm attached to it, became all but unbearable, and he cried out at the sudden jerk.

  But the pull didn’t break his grip, at least not instantly. He must have done the octopus some harm, after all, enough to weaken it a little. Perhaps, then, he had the seconds he needed.

  He groaned another incantation and twisted his right hand through an arcane pass. The extremity took on a pale silvery hue, and the fingertips lengthened into talons. A keen ridge, a blade to slash and hack, pushed out from the underside, from the base of the little finger to the wrist.

  When the transformation was complete, he drew a deep breath, released the float, and allowed his tormentor to drag him back under the water.

  He cut and tore at the octopus, severing two more of its limbs. It hauled him to its beak, and he slashed that, too, and the soft, pulsing flesh around it. He ripped and sliced, straining for one of the dark little eyes—

  The world exploded into blackness. For a moment he didn’t understand; then he realized the cephalopod had discharged its ink. Its tentacles released him, and he felt a spurt of pressure. The creature was jetting away. It had had enough.

  He struggled back to the surface and, as his hand melted back into its normal shape, back onto the float. The shalarin regarded him for a moment, then turned and swam away.

  “That’s right,” he wheezed, “you see, I am dangerous. You’d better not hang around, or.…”

  Oh, to Baator with it. Even if the shalarin had been able to hear and understand, he was too spent and in too much pain to finish the threat or do much of anything else. He knew he should examine his new wounds and check to see if the old one had started bleeding again, but it simply wasn’t in him. He could only lie still, trying not to cry or whimper too much, with his hands and feet dangling in the water.

  Though he somehow avoided sliding or rolling off the float again, he kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Since oblivion washed away misery, he welcomed it. It might well mean the end was near, and during his lucid moments, he supposed that would be merciful. He was too stubborn to put an end to his suffering. He’d proved it twice today already. But the sun and sea might soon do it for him.

  He closed his sore eyes. Just for a moment, he thought, but when he opened them, the stars were out and the water was black. He wondered if, without the sunlight baking him, he might last a few more hours and couldn’t make up his dazed, wretched mind whether to hope for it or not. Then he noticed a crested, oval-shaped object sticking up, beyond the float but almost within arm’s reach.

  It was the shalarin’s head. The creature had returned and ventured close. Perhaps it reckoned he was finally weak enough to attack without any risk to itself.

  The thought stirred the dregs of the resolve he generally felt in the face of danger. He tried to rear up so he could use his hands for self-defense but found he lacked the strength. All he could was flop around a little, like a dying fish in the bottom of a boat.

  The shalarin surged up onto the float. The wooden surface rocked, but its new occupant centered its weight before it could overturn.

  The creature gripped Anton. He struggled to shake it off but couldn’t manage that, either.

  The shalarin rolled him onto his back. They were now closer than they’d ever been before, with no distorting layers of water between them, and despite the dark, he picked out details he hadn’t discerned hitherto. Slim as it was, it had a certain subtle fullness in the area that would be a woman’s bosom, as well as a breadth to its hips, that told him it was a she. Gill slits opened along her collarbone and above her ribs. A round mark—the paucity of light prevented him from making out the color—adorned the center of her brow just below the beginning of the fin. The pendant was a skeletal hand—human, by the looks of it—and she also wore a belt around her narrow waist. Attached were several pouches.

  She unlaced one of the bags; extracted something small and roughly cubical in shape; and pressed it to his dry, cracked lips. He found the action mildly reassuring. She probably wouldn’t try to poison a man who was already dying, for what would be the point? The action suggested that, inexplicable as it seemed, she’d finally decided to help him.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t seem to understand that his most pressing need was water, not food. He wondered if his swollen throat could even swallow anything solid without choking. But he’d try. Maybe the pellet, whatever it was, would help him a little, anyway.

  When he sank his teeth into it, it burst into fragments and a copious quantity of oil. The liquid tasted so bitter that in other circumstances, he might have spit it out. But when he swallowed some, it assuaged his thirst like water.

  He greedily consumed it
and the solid matter—some sort of preserved fish?—too. “Thank you,” he gasped.

  The shalarin fed him two more cubes then produced a different sort of pellet. It was rounder, tasteless, and as tough to chew as the stalest ship’s biscuit he’d ever sampled. Still, hoping it would do him as much good as the other morsels had, he gnawed until it softened and broke apart.

  As soon as he swallowed it, the shalarin gripped him with her long, webbed fingers. She half rolled, half shoved him toward the edge of the float.

  “No!” he said. “Wait!”

  But she wouldn’t relent. He struggled to resist and in other circumstances might have succeeded. He was an able wrestler and brawler, and his brawny frame surely outweighed her spindly body. But while the pellets had snatched him back from the brink of death, he was still weak as a baby, and his attempts to grapple and punch were pathetically ineffective.

  The float tilted beneath him. Clasping him, the shalarin rolled down the incline, and they tumbled into the sea together. Kicking, she dragged him downward.

  He kept struggling but still couldn’t break her grip. After a minute the burning in his chest demanded release. He let out the breath he’d clenched in his lungs and gulped in water instead.

  It felt different than inhaling air. Water was heavier, more substantial, in his chest. But the sensation wasn’t unpleasant, and more important, he wasn’t drowning. Something the shalarin had fed him—the round morsel, he suspected—enabled him to breathe. Maybe it helped him to ignore the heightening pressure, too, considering that he didn’t need to pop his ears.

  But the magic didn’t help him see. As he and the shalarin descended, the benighted waters rapidly became impenetrable to human sight. He couldn’t even make out his captor hauling him along. It reinforced his sense of utter helplessness—not that it needed reinforcing—and he simply hung limp in the shalarin’s grasp and allowed her to do as she would.