Chapter One

It wasn't a good day to die.

In Orion's opinion, no day was a particularly pleasant one to have the flesh ripped from your bones and be devoured alive by a horde of the Phoenician war god's minions. But apparently, Orion wasn't to be given a choice. It was fight his way out of this quickly-constricting circle of Melqart's shades or start singing his own Atlantean death chant worthy of a soon-to-be deceased prince.

Why hadn't he remained on the island a while longer? Most Atlanteans could leave the embrace of the sea and breathe air for short periods of time, but his gift was the knack for remaining on land for days at a time without succumbing to the constant bombardment of poisonous substances that land walkers had created. But, no, he was impatient, as always—eager to be back with his regiment, anxious to carry the news of the latest outrage to the High Council. And where had it gotten him? Seven fathoms deep, surrounded by foul abominations that existed for one purpose—to rip him into bite-sized morsels, grind his bones between their teeth, and swallow him to the last tasty drop.

Shrieking, two of the androgynous soul-suckers surged from the ranks and closed in on him, one on the left, and the other to his right. These were fully mature shades, over six feet from saw-toothed hind flippers to snub-nosed simian heads, armed with poisonous claws—nine to an appendage—each the size of a Bengal tiger's. They dove at him, ghoulish eyes glowing red in ashen, bansheelike faces, gaping maws filled with jagged teeth that could rip and tear