routes. At any major vent near the summit caldera, feel free to bomb the living shit out of this volcano bitch!”
Pankey’s curse-filled martial bravado rang false and antithetical to Storm, and he noted that the rough talk failed to inspire any signs of gung-ho enthusiasm in the rest.
Storm asked, “Can we expect any support from the weather mind? Maybe some storm coverage to shock the defenders?”
“I considered asking for that. But any bad weather will impede us just as much as it hurts Mauna Loa’s slaves. No, stealth is our best bet.”
“What about our swords?”
“Listen, Storm, all that swordplay onboard was good exercise and fun. It took our mind off our problems. But if you need to use those toothpicks on land, it’ll be too late for you already. You’d best leave your sword behind. It’s just extra weight that’ll slow you down.”
“I’m taking mine.”
Pankey shrugged. “Junior knows best.”
Storm noticed that Jizogirl appeared about to second Storm’s objection to venturing forth unarmed. But then the doe relented, and said nothing.
Storm slept only fitfully, so angry was he at Pankey’s rude dismissal of him. So when dawn was barely a rumor, Storm was already up, alone of the wardens, and defecating over the edge of the vessel.
Looking sleepily into the dark foaming waters that had swallowed his scat, Storm hoped for a return of the dolphin diplomat, for more talk that might help him decide whose side he was really on.
But instead he saw a sleek gray hand and arm emerge to grip a ridge halfway up the hull.
He convulsively tumbled off his lavatory perch to the deck, then scrambled to his feet. A pair of hands now gripped the railing, then another pair, and another—
These were no innocent emissaries. Mauna Loa’s promise not to interfere had been a lie. She had just been stalling, till she could outfit these attackers. Suddenly, Storm felt immense guilt at having kept the earlier visit a secret. The wardens could have been prepared for invasion by this route—
“Foes! Foes! Help! Attack!”
A wet torpedo face that seemed all teeth materialized between the first pair of hands. Gills flapped shut, and nostrils flared opened.
Storm dove for his sword. The other wardens were stirring confusedly. Storm kicked them, slapped them with the flat of his blade.
“Swords! Swords! Get your swords!”
Turning back toward the rail, Storm faced the intruders fully.
The handsharks fused anthropoid and squaline designs into a bipedal monster all gray rugose hide and muscles. Neckless, their shark countenances thrust forward aggressively. Each wore the pebbled slave cap of the magma mind, clamped tight. A fishy carrion reek sublimed off them.
Involuntarily bellowing his anger and fear, Storm rushed forward, sword at the ready.
He got a deep resonant lick in on the ribs of a handshark at the same time he was batted powerfully across the chest. He went down and skidded on his butt across the wet deck. Leaping back to his feet, he confronted another monster—the same one?—and slashed out, blade landing with a squelch across its eyes.
Screams, battle-cries, the thunk of blade into flesh. Storm could get no sense of the whole battle’s tide, but only flail about in his little sphere of chaos.
Somehow he slaughtered without being slaughtered himself, until the battle was over.
Weeping, wiping blood from his face, his sword dripping gore, Storm reunited with his comrades.
Those who still lived.
That headless corpse was Bunter. The one with torn throat was Gumball. Half of Arp’s torso was gone in a single bite. Faizai lay in several pieces. They never found Shamrock; perhaps a dying handshark had dragged her overboard.
Almost half their team dead, before they even sighted their goal.
There could be no question now of where Storm must place his allegiance. All his doubt and conflicts had evaporated with the lives of his friends. Guilt plagued him as well. He knew the only way to make up for such a transgression was to carry forth the assault on Mauna Loa with all his wit and bravery. Although beyond the assassination attempt, his future still floated mistily.
Only three handshark corpses littered the deck. Just one more attacker, and all the wardens would probably this moment be dead.
Storm pulled a bloody, sobbing Jizogirl to him, clutched her tightly. He tried to imagine why he had ever sought adventure, and how he could instantly transport himself and Jizogirl and the others safely home. But hard as he pondered, throughout the sad task of creating winding sheets from the UPD, bundling up the bodies of their friends, and consigning them to the sea with a few appeals to the Upflowered, Storm could find no easy solutions.
* * * *
Throughout the battle, and afterwards, their big-bellied kite had continued to pull the
And so by the time the surviving wardens had dumped the handshark corpses overboard, washed their clotted fur, disinfected their wounds and applied antibiotics and synthskin bandages, cleansed their swords, and sluiced the offal from the deck with seawater, the jade-green island of Hawaii had come dominantly into view, swelling in size minute by minute as their craft surged on.
Storm confronted Pankey. “You’re not still thinking of hanging offshore till midnight, are you? Mauna Loa obviously knows we’re here. We can’t face another assault from more sharks.”
Pankey appeared unsure and confused. “That plan can still work. We’ll just need to put in to shore further away from Kilauea. Let’s get the coastal maps….”
Storm’s anger and anxiety boiled over. “Bugger that! The longer we have to travel overland, the more vulnerable we are!”
His expression ineffably sad, Faizai-bereft Rotifero said calmly, “I agree with our young comrade, Pankey. We need a different plan.”
“All right, all right! But what!”
Jizogirl said, “Let’s get in a little closer to shore anyhow. Maybe something we see will give us an idea.”
Pankey said, “That makes sense.”
Catmaul asked, “How will we get the weather mind to stop blowing us along?”
Normally, communication with the atmospheric entity was accomplished with programmed messenger birds that could fly high enough to have their brain states interpreted on the wing. But the wardens, overconfident about the parameters of their mission, had set out without any such intermediaries.
Pankey’s voice conveyed less than total confidence. “Old Tropo is watching us. Surely he’ll bring us to a halt safely.”
Larger and larger Hawaii bulked. Details along the gentle sloping shore became more and more resolvable.
“Is that some kind of wall?”
“I—I’m not sure…”
As predicted and hoped, when the
With their extremely sharp eyes, the wardens stared landward, unbelieving.
Ranked along the beach was a living picket of animal slaves of the volcano queen.
The main mass of the defense consisted of anole lizards. But not kawaii baseline creatures to be held with amusement in a paw. No, these anoles, unfamiliar to the mainlanders, were evidently Upflowered creations, large as elephants. And atop each anole sat a simian carrying a crudely sharpened treebranch spear. Interspersed among the legs of the anoles were a host of lesser but still formidable toothed and clawed beasts. Blotches of stony gray atop the anoles were certainly slave caps, no doubt to be found on their companions as well. The huge gaudy dewlaps of the lizards flared and shrunk, flared and shrunk ominously, a prelude to attack.
