The center head lifted. Its laughter boomed. Dennis crashed backwards onto the wet stone as the creature drew up on both his legs.
Dennis’ armor transmitted the shock of impact in a numbing flash from the base of his spine. Rakastava spread the youth’s legs sideways as well as lifting them, as if the creature were a sailor preparing rope for splicing. The youth’s groin muscles began to blaze as Rakastava stretched them more than even fencing exercises had done in the past.
Dennis reached out with his left hand, trying to grip one of the heads. His gauntlet slid off the armored muzzle, then groped with the tongue holding his left ankle. Even Rakastava’s tongues had the texture of quartz, not soft, spongy flesh.
Fiery pain filled Dennis’ eyes. He swung into the center of it, judging where the head must be from where the tongue pulsed within his grip. He felt his sword strike, but in his spasm of hysterical strength, he couldn’t be sure whether the blade bit, glanced off, or flew from his hand.
He didn’t feel the floor when he fell back on it, but salt water spattered his cheeks through the helmet visor. Rakastava was roaring like an earthquake through its two remaining throats.
The stump of the third neck spouted like an orange-lit fountain.
Dennis rose to his knees. He hadn’t lost his grip on his sword. His thighs clicked together in their armor. The feel of his overstretched muscles relaxing gave him a feeling of success greater even than seeing one of Rakastava’s heads on the coping before him.
Rakastava was sliding its body backwards. Its two remaining heads were high, but the third neck trailed limp in the water and the third head was Dennis’ prize.
“One is off, but two are on, human,” Rakastava’s main head called as the creature backed into darkness. “I will return for the princess—and for you.”
The sea boiled. Dennis braced himself to receive Rakastava’s rush and vengeance. The water surged instead—breast-high as the youth knelt and staggering in its impact, but only water and the creature’s real farewell as it dived to whatever depths it called home.
Dennis waited on his knees and left hand while his body gasped its breath back. His eyes were focused on his sword.
The blade still smoothly reflected the cavern’s light. No nicks or scratches marred the pallid metal, despite the battering it had taken in the fight.
Neither salt water nor Rakastava’s glowing blood beaded on the flats. The star-metal sword was as perfect as it had remained through the millennia before it came into Dennis’ hands.
“Oh…” the youth whispered.
Aria’s motion was a white shimmer where water pooled in the low spots of the stone floor. Dennis turned and tried to stand—then decided that he’d stay where he was instead. He balanced on one foot and one knee with his left hand near enough the ground for a third point of contact if he became that dizzy.
“Are you all right?” she asked as she knelt beside him. She touched his shoulder with the fingers of one hand, but the metal’s unearthly feel made her flinch away.
“Better than he is,” Dennis grunted. He prodded the severed head with his sword-point.
The eyes were dead black now, and the mane had lost much of its violet fire. Dennis leaned forward and ran his fingers through the seeming hair. It rustled like glass against his gauntlet.
“Are you really Gannon?” the princess asked. Her hands framed Dennis’ face as she started to raise the visor of his helmet.
He stood up suddenly, pulling away from her touch. He slammed his sword into its sheath, his motion driving Aria back a step.
The underground sea had grown as still as volcanic glass. On its surface Dennis could see the reflection of something that wasn’t there—the mirror in Malbawn’s hut, and Chester waiting at the edge of it.
He stepped toward the coping.
“Wait!” Aria called. Her slim, smooth hand was pale on the armored elbow.
Dennis turned. He wanted to clasp her; but there was nothing in that for him except the thought, and nothing for her beyond pressure from a slick, grim casing of star-metal.