If they did not, Red Elf could still fight and sail.
Torvik thought of picking the boat's crew only from Red Elf. But that might sow distrust enough to make matters worse, and taking nearly half his people would leave the rest outnumbered four to one if treachery came to the minds of others.
So it was half folk of Red Elf and half the embarked fighters who grasped the oars of the ship's longboat when it finally splashed into the water. Torvik himself took the tiller, which was not so easy a task that he could be called slack, nor so demanding that he could not meanwhile keep a sharp lookout.
Now, if he only knew what-besides sea otters who might or might not be Dimernesti, and something that might have no shape ever seen by the eyes of gods or men-he was watching for!
Wilthur the Brown scried attentively. As his knowledge of the visitors grew, he regretted more and more that he had not given his Creation a shapechanger's power.
He had tried, but it had enough wits and will to call itself sacred to Zeboim, and threatened to invoke her aid if he changed its shape. Otherwise he would have gladly made it present itself as a band of sea otters, so that the Dimernesti among them would be speared as readily as their non-elven shapemates.
Wilthur could not be sure that his Creation was telling the truth, but he was always prudent in dealing with the evil sea goddess, daughter of the Dragon Queen herself. Zeboim would be a bad enemy for any mage whose use of all three colors made him an offense to gods of all three natures. She would be the worse, for his being on an island in the middle of her watery realm.
The scrying glance went blank for a moment, then a single colossal eye stared out of it, a green circle within a black circle, and around that a rim the color of old and ill-kept ivory.
"Seek the boat," Wilthur said, though not in words that it would have been lawful for any human to hear. "Seek the boat, and let it be as before. But wait until the shallows-dwellers are close enough to seem the cause of what befalls the boat."
The eye blinked. The intelligence of the eye's owner allowed it to be stubborn as well, and it insisted on understanding Wilthur's commands before deciding whether to obey them. By the time the eye closed in obedience, he wondered if the boat might have wandered beyond the range within which his Creation could sense and pursue it.
If he had to guide it by magic, anyone listening for his spells would hear far too clearly for his peace of mind.
Wilthur the Brown fretted to no purpose.
His Creation's senses were quite adequate to finding Torvik's boat, for all that it was moving along at a good pace, cutting across the tide rather than battling it head-on.
Torvik's first thought at the splash ahead was that they were approaching a reef.
So was his second thought, as a part of the darkness turned solid and jagged, like part of a reef thrust above the water. It was when the solid darkness moved, then opened to become a gigantic claw, that he realized they had found their quarry. Or, more likely, it had found them.
Something wrapped itself around the tiller, nearly jerking the solid bar of wood out of his hands. Then the tiller jerked again, slamming hard against Torvik's chest. He heard ribs creaking, and was sure his spine had suffered grave hurt as his back crashed against the gunwale of the boat.
Then the boat tilted, as one sucker-studded tentacle heaved the tiller completely out of its socket and brandished it in the air. A man rose to retrieve it. Another tried to pull him down. A third drew his sword.
Torvik shouted at all of them to get down, but it was too late. The boat had tilted beyond its balance point even before a second length of rank, sucker-studded flesh slapped over the gunwale with a hideous sound, like a man drowning in boiling glue.
It caught the man with the sword, who slashed at it. Purplish fluid oozed, the arm twitched but did not loosen its grip, and in the next moment the man was gone, over the side. He had time for one despairing shriek before he was pulled under.
Then the boat itself went over. Torvik had just decided to leap overboard and dive after the man, who could hardly save himself unaided, when he found himself in the water regardless. He was trying to count the heads bobbing in the water beside the boat's upturned bottom, when what might have been a band of iron gripped his left foot.
His father's sword was long and supple; it could thrust as well as slash. He thrust down, and the iron band's pressure eased.
Then a second took his other foot, and a third looped about his sword arm and squeezed. He had sworn many years ago to die rather than let the sword fall into an enemy's hands, but it fell out of his hand now because his fingers could no longer grip anything.
Fury and shame left no room for fear in Torvik Jemarsson, as the Creation's tentacles drew him under the water.
Chapter 9
Mirraleen had encountered Wilthur's Creation before, and so had the band with her. She had not seen it when it was killing, however, nor from so close.
The Red Walker knew that she must go even closer still, to try to snatch some of the human sailors from the claws, tentacles, and beak of the monster. She had not been able to do this for the minotaurs, or later with the folk of a human ship so small that she'd left no survivors. Those failures both shamed her, even considering how little she liked minotaurs. They were too quick with their harpoons, as much as the worst sort of human.
But failure tonight could do worse than shame her. If a single man survived from the boat and told of sea otters present when his mates died, surely someone would blame the otters. Then the sea otters of Suivinari would face a great hunt, which might destroy them, perhaps sweep up any shallows-dwellers who answered Mirraleen's summons, and surely distract human attention at the worst possible moment.
She did not know who would gain the most from the Istaran fleet sailing so far wide of its true course, Wilthur or the minotaurs. She hoped it would be the minotaurs, who had limits and knew it.
Wilthur was also bound by nature and the gods, but thought otherwise. Seeking to go beyond these boundaries, he could wreak far more havoc than a hundred shiploads of those who called themselves the Destined Race.
Mirraleen tossed her flippers, driving herself through the shallow water. After her the rest of the band splashed into the water. From offshore those already feeding at sea responded with the quick barks that meant they were coming in ready obedience. A moment later, Mirraleen knew that she was not as much in command of herself as she had thought.
She replied to the sea otters with the clicks and whistles her magic allowed her to use, the tongue of the dolphins. She had learned the language centuries ago, to deal with dolphins seeking to make a meal of a sea otter, as they sometimes did. It also had its uses in speaking to the rare Dargonesti sea-brother who had been in his dolphin shape so long that his spirit was more dolphin than elven, and his attention best gained with the dolphin tongue.
Mirraleen rose, inhaled the night air, and barked quick commands in the proper language for leading sea otters. Their replies gave reassurance. They would move against Wilthur's Creation from two directions, rescuing the humans first and fighting only if they must, to complete the rescue.
Mirraleen angled downward, into the deeper water beyond the reef. She went that deep only to feed or to avoid the Creation. Not only did it seldom pass beyond the reef, but its senses could not reach out past the reef to find those who swam in deep water.
The Red Walker had pondered more than a trifle on this mystery. Had she known more of magic, she might have set herself the task of solving it. But her powers did not allow her more than intelligent guesses. Also, she shared the temperament of those with whom she swam. Sea otters were shrewd and practical. They did not often allow themselves to be troubled by mysteries that did not directly threaten their survival.