Amaranthe circled the vessel and swam beneath its belly, following one of the corridors. Its ascent had slowed to a crawl, and she wondered if it would ever break the surface. All too aware of the kraken weaving after her, she stayed in the craft’s shadow. She was out of harpoons and had dropped the launcher. She still had her sword, and, though it made swimming hard, kept it in hand.
She hoped she was giving Sicarius and Basilard the time they needed.
Something batted her ankle. One of the tentacles. It moved in to get a grip, but she bent double and sank her short sword into it.
It jerked away and bumped against the hull of the laboratory. Streaks of lighting ran up its length, dancing between the clear cups on the underside of the tentacle.
The kraken jerked that limb away, but another snaked in from the opposite side. Amaranthe pulled her legs up, barely evading the grasping tentacle. She tried to spot Maldynado and the others, but couldn’t see anyone. Ink and blood—all the kraken’s, she hoped—muddled the water. With the creature so obviously targeting her, she dared not swim out from beneath the vessel. Besides, with the electrified hull so close, the craft offered more than a hiding spot.
A tentacle swooped in five feet ahead, and she reversed her strokes to halt herself. The two sinuous limbs had her trapped; she could not evade them without swimming into the open.
Amaranthe gripped her sword, a notion of making a stand in her head. She stroked forward, eyes focused on the tentacle blocking her route. It swept back and forth like a cat’s tail, though it was careful not to touch the hull this time. She timed the movements and stabbed the rubbery purple flesh. Too bad she did not have poison on the tip. The tentacle did not seem to notice her attack.
She tugged her sword free, intending to search for a more vulnerable target.
Something wrapped around her leg. The other tentacle. She’d taken her eye off of it for too long.
Amaranthe tried to yank her leg free, but the grip tightened, applying bone-crushing force that smothered her from calf to thigh. Her knee creaked, and she hissed in pain.
An image flashed through her mind of a shattered knee with her unable to walk for the rest of her life. If she had a rest of her life. Where was the rest of her team?
She twisted and slammed her sword into the tentacle. Though her blade sank in a few inches, the kraken tightened its grip instead of releasing her.
Maldynado swam into view, but he carried only that thin rapier, not a harpoon launcher. What would that do?
He stabbed gamely at the creature, but the tentacle ignored him. The kraken pulled her from beneath the vessel, its movements slow, almost leisurely.
Amaranthe hacked at the appendage, no grace to her movements. She was like a logger hewing at a tree. A tree that wanted to kill her.
Something snapped in her knee, and she screamed, the noise half pain, half rage. She tore into the tentacle with even more vigor.
Her breaths came in short gasps. She could not get enough air.
Under her rain of blows, the tentacle stiffened, then loosened. Had the creature finally had enough? Or maybe it was only shifting its grip.
Amaranthe looked up, trying to spot the kraken’s eyes, hoping she would find defeat there.
It hovered, ten feet below the Saberfist. Her harpoon still protruded from the right orb, and the tentacles on that side of its body floated limply. Basilard and Sicarius were weaving between them, approaching the underside of the creature. The keg was still in Sicarius’s arms.
Hurry, she urged.
He swam the last few meters, yanked something out of the keg, and thrust the poison into a dark orifice.
Amaranthe hoped that was it, the death blow, but a spasm coursed through the tentacle restraining her. It tightened about her leg, and she gasped as fresh pain erupted from her knee. She fought back tears of frustration. What if Sicarius had delivered the killing blow, but the kraken ripped her in half in its death throes?
She hacked at the tentacle with renewed vigor, determined to free herself or die trying. Inside her helmet, sweat dribbled down her face, stinging her eyes. Dozens of perforations marred the tentacle, and blood clouded the water, but still it would not release her.
Finally, the limb relaxed. Amaranthe shoved at it to pull her leg free. She stroked away from it and almost lost her sword as lightheadedness overcame her. She was breathing too hard, sucking in more air than the suit was designed to deliver.
But the tentacle remained limp and unmoving.
Two suited figures and one naked one were treading water a few feet away.
Problem? Amaranthe signed, cheeks warming with sheepish chagrin, knowing Sicarius had observed her wild hacks. Mercenary leaders were supposed to remain calm and rational during a crisis, not descend into an animalistic frenzy.
It’s dead, Maldynado signed, but if you want to keep at the blade practice, we can wait.
She checked Sicarius’s face, wondering how long it had been since he had taken a breath. He appeared fine, if more serene than usual with those hooded eyes.
No, she signed. That was sufficient.
Amaranthe started to swim toward the men, but the first attempt at a kick sent fire flaring from her knee. Someone gripped her upper arm. She lifted a hand to sign that she could make it on her own, but it was Sicarius, so she stopped. No doubt, he wanted to go up for air, not discuss her independent streak.
She stroked with her arms, letting her wounded leg hang limply, and he helped her toward the surface. He angled away from the Saberfist as they rose. Good idea. No need to tempt any marines by popping his million-ranmya head up in the middle of the activity.
The top of the laboratory vessel was creeping out of the water. That ought to keep the marines busy for a while.
When she broke the surface, sun blazed into her eyes. Morning sun. It seemed as if they had been underwater all day, yet it must have only been a couple of hours.
Amaranthe squinted and tried to lift a hand to shield her face, but, with her left leg dangling uselessly, she needed both arms to stay afloat. Her eyes adjusted, though, and she made out the marines scurrying about on the deck of their ship, preparing their salvage crane and dinghies for boarding. The kraken was floating on the surface now, too.
She struggled with the fasteners for her helmet. She wanted the thing off, so she could breathe fresh air again.
Sicarius caught her by the armpit with one hand and unclasped her helmet with the other. He had no trouble staying afloat using just his legs, but then both of his legs were working. As soon as her head was free, she flung the helmet aside, not caring if it floated away. She had had enough of suits and krakens and underwater practitioners. Though she could not complain about the outcome, she decided not to put subaqueous activities on their official list of mercenary services.
“Your knee?” Sicarius asked, his gaze roving the deck of the ship and the surrounding activity.
“Yes. I don’t think I’ll be joining you for a morning run anytime soon.”
“Akstyr can fix it.”
“Surely, I’ll need to rest it for a couple of weeks.”
“Days.”
Amaranthe spotted Maldynado, Akstyr, Books, and then Basilard closer toward the shore. She waved for them to head inland. It was time for her team to disappear.
“Aren’t I entitled to a vacation now and then?” she asked. “Look, there’s a nice beach over there. If we swim that way instead of meeting up with the men, we could enjoy the summer day.” She nodded at Sicarius’s bare shoulders. “You’re dressed for it.”
“You are not.”
“True.” She plucked at the heavy suit. “But I’ve been wanting to get out of this. Whether that’s back at the docks or on a secluded beach doesn’t matter to me.” She smiled playfully.
He did not answer promptly, and she thought he might actually be considering it. Until he said, “With Akstyr’s healing, two days should be sufficient rest for your knee. Then your training can commence again.”
Amaranthe sighed. “You’re an unrelenting taskmaster.”
“Yes.”
A wave washed over them, and he wiped his face. She eyed him, half-suspecting him of using the movement to hide the barest hint of a smile. But surely that would be too jovial for him.
“Ready to go?” she asked.
Something on the Saberfist caught his attention, and he did not answer. Someone on the ship leaned against the railing, someone in civilian clothing and a hat.
Amaranthe lifted a hand toward Deret, the best “thank you” she could manage at this distance. He started to wave back, but glanced at marines jogging past behind him and kept himself to a nod.
“Ready to go?” Amaranthe repeated.
“Yes.” Sicarius’s humor had evaporated, and his unreadable facade returned.