Extinction - Lisa Smedman [81]
The aboleth turned and bolted down the tunnel, retreating with powerful strokes of its fluked tail. Jeggred growled, knowing it had probably gone to summon more of the fish-folk.
He continued ripping at the sticky ball that blocked the audience chamber doorway. Each time, his hand got stuck-but each time he ripped off a few strands. Smelling real blood, the draegloth began to pant-then he realized that the blood was his own. His hand was raw where skin had been torn from it.
Inside the audience chamber, Quenthel held Oothoon at bay with her rod. The aboleth matriarch stared for several moments, her three eyes unblinking, then she launched herself out of the niche. Mouth gaping, she sped across the chamber.
For some reason that Jeggred could not imagine, Quenthel seemed to be having trouble making her rod work. Only at the last moment did its magic come to life. A glob streaked toward Oothoon-and missed. As Quenthel flailed back in terror, the aboleth matriarch closed on her, and swallowed the high priestess whole.
For a moment, Jeggred could only stare in horror. His mistress was gone. Eaten. Dead!
Fury seized him. He tore at the sticky mess that held him, heedless of the skin that was being ripped from his hands and arms. Panting water in and out of his lungs-or perhaps vomiting it up and swallowing it again-he thrashed like a fish caught in a net.
All the while, Oothoon stared at him mockingly, one tentacle stroking a bulge in her stomach.
The sticky mass blocking the doorway tore but did not come free. Tipping his head back in frustration-and tearing out yet more hair that had become stuck in the viscous glob-Jeggred howled in rage and sorrow but at last came to his senses.
The Mistress was wise, he thought. She had foreseen this.
And she had given him an order-a final order that had to be carried out quickly, before the wounded aboleth returned with reinforcements.
Wrenching himself free of the sticky doorway, Jeggred swam as fast as he could down the corridor, looking for a way out.
Chapter Twenty-one
Pharaun listened dispassionately as Jeggred gasped out his story. The draegloth was dripping wet and still making the transition to breathing air again. He sucked in great, gurgling breaths that might have been construed-were they made by a creature that was not demon-spawned-to be sobs.
"She's been eaten," Jeggred said, his head low and all four arms hanging dejectedly at his sides. "Mistress Quenthel is dead."
Pharaun regarded the draegloth coldly and said, "Thanks to you."
The comment normally would have caused Jeggred to leap forward, snarling for blood, but instead he stood as quietly as a rothe waiting for slaughter.
Danifae, standing in the tunnel beside the river, glanced at Pharaun.
"Is it even possible?" she asked. "Even without her spells, Mistress Quenthel should have been capable of defeating the aboleth. Her armor and enchantments alone should have protected her from-"
"He said she was swallowed whole," Valas interjected. "She never had a chance."
At the mercenary's blunt words, Jeggred's shoulders slumped still lower. Hunkering down, the draegloth wrapped his smaller arms around his knees and stared blankly at the river.
Pharaun nodded to himself. As Jeggred had been relating what had happened in the aboleth city, Pharaun grew increasingly certain that the draegloth truly believed his mistress was dead.
Danifae touched his arm lightly and asked, "What should we do next, Master Pharaun? You're the leader now-it's your decision."
Pharaun noted how Danifae had glanced at Valas as she spoke, as if she was watching the mercenary for any challenge to Pharaun's leadership.
Valas, having noted the same thing, grunted, then shrugged.
"Yes," he said, meeting Pharaun's eye. "What now? Continue the search for the ship of chaos-or