Page 13 of Vasmora

“The worst is over! You’ve already drowned. Congratulations, you lived!” The humor in Dolion’s voice withered as another wave propelled them upward and back down again.

Rykaia caught hold of Torryn’s waving arm. “You’re safe. Lie back and try to hold your breath. I’ve got you.”

As if her words somehow penetrated the panic etched in his expression, Torryn stopped slapping at the water, his body twitching as he kicked frantically below the surface.

“What do we do?” Allura asked from the other side of Torryn, where she also clutched his cloak as she glanced around below, undoubtedly searching for the Syrenians.

Torryn’s body slipped beneath the surface, yanking the three of them forward, and his cloak tugged from Dolion’s grasp.

“Torryn!” Without so much as a blink, Rykaia dove into the water after him.

Again, Allura held up the orb of light, but as their bodies heaved forward on a wave, the orb slipped from Allura’s grasp, the light drifting away as it carried on the current. “Damn it!” She growled.

Rykaia finally surfaced, Torryn’s head caught in her bent arm as she heaved for breath. “They … tried to take him … under!”

“Everyone hold onto each other. Tightly!” Dolion and Allura huddled closer to the other two, gathering themselves around Torryn. Without the heat, the water’s icy grip squeezed Dolion’s lungs. “They’ll kill Torryn … and me first. They do not … take kindly to males.”

“No! No one dies.” Rykaia snapped. “I’ll cut every … one of their throats!” Her comment seemed to tug a smile from Torryn, in spite of his obvious distress. “If I had a damned blade. Bastards took all of our weapons!”

“Not all of them,” Torryn said between coughs, and from somewhere below, perhaps tucked inside his leathers, he produced a small, narrow blade, its tip so honed and pointed, it almost seemed invisible in the darkness. Just as he handed it to her, his body slipped beneath the surface again.

Rykaia growled and once more dipped below.

“Rykaia!” Dolion attempted to summon another orb, but managed only a dying glow. The cold was bad enough, but the salt in the water, absorbing into his Elvyniran skin, affected his Nexumis.

Once again, the two emerged from the depths, coughing and sputtering.

“They’re toying with us!” Rykaia’s hand slipped across Torryn’s chest as she fought to hold onto him.

Dolion and Allura gathered around the two, each offering a shoulder for Torryn to grasp.

“Let me go!” Torryn barked. “Can’t swim, but I’ll take as many down with me as I can!”

“If you don’t … shut up, I’ll release you … regardless.” The hoarse rasp of Rykaia’s voice indicated she was clearly running out of breath. Her arm flailed against the ocean swells. “They’ll be no martyrs. She’s going … to retaliate! I think I pissed her off … well and good!” She managed a chuckle, and still holding Torryn with one arm, she held the skinny blade out, as though expecting it.

Fins broke through the surface around them.

Lots of fins.

Too many to fight off.

As if the sea itself bent to the Syrenians’ will, the water around them stilled, eerily placid, like they’d been captured inside an invisible dome.

It was in that stillness that Dolion realized how much his muscles burned, how weak they’d become from trying to keep himself afloat. Even then, as he did nothing more than tread, he could feel exhaustion pulling at his body, sucking the energy right out of him.

Moonlight caught the scales across bodies and illuminated the unsettling faces of the Syrenians who surrounded them, corralling them.

One of them let out a high-pitched squeal, and she charged toward Rykaia. Another, bigger than the first, with more jagged fins, threw out her arm, and the aggressive Syrenian seemed to slam into an unseen wall.

Perhaps they had been captured in a dome of sorts.

Dolion’s bones damned near rattled, as he watched what he surmised to be their matriarch, or leader, glide through the water toward them. He’d never given thought to being eaten alive until right then. A terrifying way to die, and yet, how many men at sea had fallen prey to their ruthless nature?

A thought struck him.

“A gift,” he muttered. He’d heard of some occasions, whether myth or real, of an offering sparing the lives of some seaman. It was why they often sailed with something valuable, whether it be coin or jewels. Those less fortunate kept whistles and other trinkets tucked in their clothes. Thought to be more superstition than anything.

As he scrambled for the family relic he’d worn most of his life, encircled around his bicep, Dolion realized he’d given it to Zevander weeks earlier as a token of trust.