His skin was only a few shades of blue lighter. He was broad across the shoulders from living in the sea, and wore a shell-covered cloth girdle fitted with a belt because he'd been in the shallows, where surface dwellers, uncomfortable with nakedness, might see him. Still, he had appreciated the pockets in the girdle for carrying some small shells he'd found along the way.

Flyys drew the tapal from his belt as the morkoth gathered overhead. The weapon was uniquely triton. Formed of crystal, it was shaped into a curve like a surface dweller's fishhook. Two handles, set in the middle of the tapal and inside the curved end, allowed usage of either end of the weapon. A trained triton warrior could use the tapal as a long sword, dagger, or spear by spinning it around in his hands.

"Give up, longmane," one of the morkoth advised, "and your death will be mercifully swift."

Wishing he had a gallant reply readily on his lips, Flyys lifted the tapal in defiance. Sunlight caught the wide, curved end. "I know not to trust the word of kraknyth." Kraken were mortal enemies of the triton, and the triton considered morkoth to be kraken-kin.

The morkoth undulated in the water, their tentacles splaying out and curling reflexively in the currents. They carried spears, but Flyys knew it was the savage beaks and pincers he most had to fear. Sunlight gleamed over their bodies, creating hypnotic patterns on their purple skin.

"We'll have more time with you than we did with your fellow spies, longmane," the morkoth warned.

The death screams of the three tritons who had taken him with them echoed in the young triton's ears. They'd been discovered aboard a pirate ship near Dragonisle in the early hours of that morning. Junnas had immediately thrown Flyys overboard, instructing him to swim to Pumanath as quickly as possible and tell the nobles what they'd learned. Junnas and the others had stayed behind to die.