Maris Calderon's Arc

Chapter 4 of 14

Maris swam three nights toward the swamp. The water grew black and warm. Then the stronghold rose before him, a fortress of jagged rock draped in green vines. Its dark towers pierced the murk. This was his birthright, taken by another before he ever knew it was his. He drifted to the great arched gate. Guards with wooden spears filled the water inside, dozens of them, tails flashing every color. They saw him and did not bow. To them he was nothing. "I am the blood of the old king," Maris said. His voice carried through the water. "This throne is mine." The guards laughed. Then the water went cold. From the shadowed chambers came the one who ruled here now. Malachar Deepcrest swam slow, sure of every stroke. His hair spread like black ink. His fingers ended in curved claws. When he opened his mouth, long fangs showed. The guards drew back. Even his own men feared him. "You wear the old face," Malachar said. He circled Maris. His deep blue tail stirred the silt. "But blood is only a claim. Claims mean nothing here. Strength rules Miredeep." He bared his fangs. "Prove it, or feed my throne." Maris felt the thread in his chest. It ran back across the miles to Elara, warm and steady. He pulled on it. Power flooded him, cold and clean, the same tide that had healed him in the shack. His arms filled with force he did not have alone. "Then I challenge you," Maris said. Malachar lunged. His claws raked for Maris's throat. Maris twisted and the claws tore only water. He struck back, driving his fist into the king's ribs. Malachar snarled and coiled his tail around Maris's chest. It squeezed. Maris felt his gills strain. He reached out and gripped the trident racked beside the arch. It came free in his hand, its blue stones flaring. He drove the middle prong into Malachar's coiled tail. The king screamed. His grip broke. Maris spun and set the three points at Malachar's throat. "Yield," Maris said. Malachar looked at the trident, then at the guards. No one moved to help him. He sank low in the water. "Miredeep is yours," he rasped. The guards lowered their spears. One by one they bowed, heads dipping toward the silt. Maris swam through them to the dark stone throne, carved with coiling shapes. He sat. The trident rested across his knees. The kingdom was his at last. But the thread in his chest had gone thin. He had pulled hard on Elara's power to win. Now he felt her far away, weak, the bond stretched almost to breaking. And Malachar, crawling toward the shadows, lifted his black eyes to Maris. "The land-girl," he hissed. "I felt her through you. I know where to find what you love."