But they were now thrashing a little aimlessly, so that they did not work well together.

The monster was confused by that terrible, searching trust.
Little Sword was hampered by the feelers clutching at him, but he still had room to use his weapon.

With all his weight and quivering strength he drove his sword again deep into the Inkmaker's head, twisting and wrenching it sideways as he drew it out.

Other tentacles closed over him, but seemed to have lost their clutching power through the attack upon the source of their nervous energy.

The struggling barracouta was drawn down with them, but blindly; and the water was now utterly black with the rank ink which the monster was pumping forth.
"For a few moments all was one boiling convulsion of fish and tentacles and ink, Little Sword simply stabbing and stabbing at the soft mass under his weapon.