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 stateparched, starved, gashed arm feeblehe 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 talismana bit of ram’s hornfrom 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 air. 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?
