Page 7 of I Summon the Sea

I blink up as the men surge around him. Gods, he’s really tall, and those muscular arms and shoulders look wide enough to carry the firmament. His head is crowned by tousled black hair that curls slightly at his nape and brushes his square jaw.

An intimidating male, for sure.

“Be ready to fight,” he barks, and yes, I wasn’t wrong. Shadows. They curl around him, around his legs and shoulders, slithering like black mist, and twin swords materialize in his hands, pointing down. Their tips seem to be smoking, dissolving into shadow. “Draw your weapons!”

They are black swords, their blades glittering and yet lapping up the light, hurting my eyes. It looks like they’re made of nightgold alloy, the strongest metal in the world.

The guards lift their spears and swords. The barge rocks again. Shouts from behind me indicate that the attack is felt along the convoy, the impact rippling down its considerable length.

A moment of stillness surrounds us, as if the world is holding its breath. Somewhere above, at the distance, colorful draks dance against the sky, their great leathery wings seeming to catch fire, while higher up, the enormous dara are mere shadows against the firmament.

Then, a cry rings out. “Finnfolk!”

They rise to grab the barge, scaly hands tipped with black claws, webs between their fingers. Their faces rise over the side, lidless eyes dark and malevolent, skull-like grins stretching their mouths wide, showing all those sharp, yellow teeth.

“Watersprights!” the cry comes around, and the guards rush to the edge of the barge, rocking it so hard I roll away from the protection of the post. Lifting their swords, they start hacking at the merfolk who snarl and claw at them, some lifting green blades that strike sparks off the guards’ swords. A mermaid pulls one of the guards down into the water, his scream cut off suddenly.

The barges rock and I struggle to sit up, clutching my dagger in one hand as I scrabble with the other against the raised edge of the barge hold.

Someone yells an order. Another yells a curse. A green-hued merman is crawling toward me, eyes malicious, the claws on his hands gouging holes into the deck, his long fishtail sliding across the planks.

Ignoring him, ignoring the fighting taking place a few feet away from me, I concentrate on getting up. My feet burn, my legsare still too damn weak. I’m not used to legs and feet or generally to standing, not anymore. Gravity is dragging me down, but these are risks I had to take, a discomfort I will gladly tolerate to be here.

Just as I finally manage to stand, my drenched gown clinging to my thighs and shins, making movement difficult and turning my already clumsy balance more precarious, I find the shadow warrior, Athdara, approaching, sheathing his twin swords over his shoulders as he walks, freeing his hands.

Then he grabs the merman by the tail and swings him away and overboard.

As if it’s an annoying fish that landed on his deck.

I’m staring. I mean, the merman was easily larger and much heavier than Athdara. Perhaps twice his weight. And he tossed him off the boat as if he weighed nothing.

But he doesn’t seem to notice me as he unsheathes his swords once more and goes back to swinging them, hacking at the merfolk climbing onto the barge, then shoving them and kicking them off.

He’s a whirlwind, a storm, black hair flying as he swings his swords over his head and around, slicing through more mermen and mermaids and other watersprights climbing onto the barge. The shadows whirl with him, twining about him like clingy pets, occasionally breaking off to grab and drag a creature off the deck and back into the sea.

It’s breathtaking.

He’s breathtaking.

Like a force of nature, powerful and graceful at the same time. I see so much raw strength and skill in the way he wields his weapons. His every motion is precise and clean. Nothing flashy. Nothing unnecessary. Dealing death as if he was born for the task, created for it.

A death messenger.Aides, the divine king of death reincarnate.

He has this under control, I think, under wraps. He’s tearing the attacking finnfolk apart. We’re almost good to go.

Just then the barge tilts and slides from under me.

The surface of the slow-flowing river shatters with a mighty splash and a roar, and a great crested head on a long, scaly neck rises.

“Sea drak!” The ululation runs over the barges like a rising wave. “Sea drak!”

Sea drak? Well, what an honor.

As the deck tilts more, I scramble to keep my feet, my dagger still in my hand. The sea monsters, huge dragons living in the ocean depths, rarely venture this far into the shallow lagoons, unless they are hunting, and they certainly aren’t hunting me.

The dragon rises higher and higher, rivers of water sluicing down its serpentine neck, over moss-green and bone-white scales, the crest on its head and the ridge on the back bristling and rattling.

Holy Wights, it’s immense. It’s clearly an old one.

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