The Obsidian Oracle

by Denning, Troy

  The fire corps rushed forward, pouring their bags of silt over the flames to smother them. At the same time, the catapult crews pulled their release cords to return the giants’ barrage. Even the dwarves who had been burned unleashed their missiles, still howling in agony.

  The Balican fire streaked away from the ship with a loud sizzle, lighting the sky and filling the air with such a caustic stench that Tithian choked on the acrid fumes. As the fiery balls reached their zenith, the ship’s wizard raised his gnarled finger and cried, “Shower!”

  The globes exploded, spraying burning gobs over everything beneath them. For a moment, all was quiet, then a portion of the sea itself erupted into fire and greasy black smoke. A chorus of pained screeches rolled across the silt and broke against the hull. Then, as the flames slowly sank beneath the dust, the cries died away.

  When the smoke cleared, the twelve giants that had attacked the Silt Lion were gone. The reinforcements stopped battling the fire long enough to give a rousing cheer. The dwarven crews simply began to pry their catapult arms down again, though the five who had been burned earlier lacked the strength to succeed—no matter how hard their templar overseer lashed their charred backs.

  Tithian turned to Saanakal. “I thought you said we were doomed?”

  “Our wizard’s timing was remarkable—this time,” the high templar said, pointing over the stern. “But when his good fortune runs out, so does ours.”

  When Tithian looked in the direction Saanakal had indicated, a cold hand closed around his heart. In the heat of the Silt Lion’s exchange, he had lost track of the rest of the battle. Now, he found himself looking on in horror as eight giants charged the Wyvern. Each carried a large battering ram in his hands.

  The Wyvern’s foredeck ballistae fired. One tree-sized lance lodged in the breast of a goat-headed giant. Another harpoon pierced the scaly throat of a serpent-headed giant. Both attackers fell immediately, vanishing into the silt as if they had never been there. The remaining six hit the ship with their rams, opening great breaches in the hull and shaking the masts with the force of the impact.

  Dust poured through the holes in rivers, but the shipfloater continued to hold the schooner aloft. Dozens of sailors rushed forward to thrust their lances at the giants, while the catapult crews used their ladles to fling Balican fire over the side.

  Neither effort was to much avail, for the giants slapped the lances aside and easily dodged the clumsy attempts to pelt them with flame. They pushed upward on the rams with which they had punctured the hull. The schooner, still levitated by the shipfloater, tipped easily. Men, catapults, cargo, and everything else not firmly attached to the decks went tumbling into the silt. After the shipfloater and his dome fell away, the Wyvern itself settled into the dust.

  When it was about three quarters buried, it touched bottom and stopped sinking. Survivors immediately swarmed to the portion of hull still showing above the dust, but it was clear they would not live much longer. As the Silt Lion sailed away from the wreck, the giants were using their rams like clubs to smash the hull into tiny bits.

  Tithian turned to Saanakal. “Cancel the order to flee toward the islands,” he said. “Tell each ship to engage the giants at close quarters. They’re to move the vats of Balican fire to the gunnels and dump them over the side as the giants tip their ships.”

  The high templar stared at him as if he were mad. “That’s suicide!” he gasped. “Without a ship—”

  “The giants will sink our ships anyway. We may as well take as many of our enemies with us as we can,” Tithian replied. He looked to the ship’s mate and helmsman, then added, “Does anyone else prefer a fighting death to that of a coward?”

  The helmsman was the first to reply. “I will follow your orders, High One,” she said, speaking to Saanakal. “But I prefer a fighting death.”

  Several junior officers added their support, which only angered Saanakal. “Silence!” he ordered. He switched his gaze back to Tithian. “King Andropinis commanded me to follow your instructions, so I have yielded to your wishes up to now. But what you ask is madness. I won’t do it.”

  “That would make you a mutineer,” responded Tithian. He allowed his hand to drift toward his satchel, but did not put it inside.

  “Refusing to squander my fleet is not mutiny,” countered the high templar.

  “Your fleet will sink anyway,” Tithian said, stepping toward Saanakal. “What is there to be afraid of? Dying an honorable death?”

  “There is always the hope—”

  “Truly?” Tithian scoffed. He looked to Ictinis and asked, “How many ships remain?”

  “Eleven,” answered the shipfloater. “No, now only ten.”

  “Your schooners are sinking like stones, Navarch. The only men who stand a chance of surviving are those who can cross the silt without a ship.” Tithian glanced at the young officers crowding the quarterdeck, then asked, “Who would that be? Your sorcerers, your shipfloaters, and perhaps your captains?”

  The high templar’s face darkened to an angry crimson, while bitter whispers of speculation rustled through the gathering of officers.

  “I’m sure you have a magic ring or talisman that will see you to a safe place,” Tithian pressed. Although he did not know whether or not Saanakal actually possessed such an item, it seemed a logical assumption—and that was what would matter to the crew. “Perhaps that’s why you don’t want to fight at close quarters. When the ship sinks, you can escape. But your magic won’t save you if a giant grabs you.”

  “One more word and I’ll have you launched from a catapult!” the high templar hissed. “Now return to the floater’s pit and let me command the fleet!”

  “So your crew can die while you escape?” Tithian replied, shaking his head. “No.”

  “Take this passenger below,” Saanakal commanded, motioning for his first mate to obey the order.

  Before the man could step forward, Tithian stared him straight in the eye. “Andropinis himself loaned me this fleet,” he said. “By refusing to obey me, Navarch Saanakal is defying your king. Do you wish to join him in that?”

  When the mate remained where he stood, the high templar cursed and reached for his dagger. “Enough!”

  “I don’t think so,” said the first mate, grabbing Saanakal’s wrist. “If I’m going to die, then I will do it as I have lived—at King Andropinis’s pleasure.”

  With that, he handed the king’s eye to the helmsman, then picked up the templar and pitched him over the side. Screaming in fear, Saanakal thrust a hand into the pocket of his robe. The dust swallowed him before he could withdraw the object hidden inside.

  “Prepare yourselves to die like soldiers,” Tithian said, giving his crew an approving nod. “And take us into battle.”

  As the astonished officers obeyed, Tithian had his shipfloater relay his attack orders to the surviving ships. Next, he took the king’s eye from the helmsman and began to scan the haze.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “My giant,” Tithian replied.

  It did not take the king long to find what he was after. Within a few minutes, he saw Fylo’s ugly form leading an attack against another ship. The giants had already thrown their boulders and were plowing forward through the silt, their rams cradled under their arms.

  As Tithian watched, the ship fired its catapults, but the wizard mistimed his command word and dropped the flames behind the giants. Nevertheless, the king could see that the battle was far from over. Vats of Balican fire were lined up all along the gunnel, ready to be dumped on the attackers, and the ballista crews were holding their fire until the giants came closer.

  Tithian gave the king’s eye to a junior officer. “Which ship is that?”

  “The King’s Lady,” he replied.

  “Good,” he said, pointing at Fylo’s ugly face. “Do you see that giant?”

  “The one whose head looks sort of human?”

  “Yes. Keep us pointed toward him,” Tithian
replied. Next, he turned to the shipfloater. “Tell the King’s Lady to hold her attacks. We’re coming alongside and may be able to save her from this bunch.”

  For the next few moments, Tithian watched in grim silence as the Silt Lion bore down on its targets. The giants were approaching the King’s Lady cautiously, suspicious of the lack of resistance from the ship. Nevertheless, they were close enough to hoist their rams and charge at any moment.

  “Captain Saba asks permission to defend his ship,” reported the shipfloater.

  “No!” Tithian spat.

  “But we’ll never get there in time,” objected the helmsman. “If they don’t resist—”

  “The King’s Lady is sunk anyway!” snapped Tithian. “And I don’t want anyone killing my giant—not yet.”

  Several of the ship’s officers exchanged skeptical glances, then one ventured to ask, “Why not?”

  “He must be the one who set up this ambush, and I want to know why before I deal a very special punishment out to him,” the king answered. He looked back to Ictinis. “Tell Captain Saba this: when the giants hit his ship, he’ll be protected by the king of Tyr’s magic—but only if his counterattacks don’t interfere.”

  The shipfloater sent the message.

  A moment later, Tithian and his officers watched as Fylo and his giants crashed into the King’s Lady. Unhampered by any resistance from the ship, their charge hit with such force that it ripped the foredeck off the rest of the ship. The ballistae discharged harmlessly and the vats of Balican fire toppled, instantly creating an inferno on the decks. Trailing long tails of flame, sailors and dwarves leaped over the sides, their agonized screams falling silent as they disappeared into the dust.

  A burly man stepped toward Tithian, his silt-scarf hanging loosely around his neck. His jaw was set, and his puffy cheeks were pale with the horror of what he had just witnessed. “You said you’d save them!” he gasped.

  “Come now,” Tithian replied. As he spoke, he turned his palm to the deck, using his body to shield it from view as he drew the energy for a spell. “You heard me say that the King’s Lady was lost. You knew I was lying to Captain Saba when I said I would protect him.”

  “When I tossed Navarch Saanakal overboard, it seems I traded a coward for a liar,” growled the first mate, stepping toward Tithian. “You said we were going to kill giants—not protect yours!”

  “This fleet has already killed more giants under me than it would have under Saanakal!”

  With that, he collected a pinch of dust from the gunnel and threw it into the air. He spoke his incantation, then the mate, officers, and the helmsman all dropped to the deck, their eyes closed tight behind their dust-shields. Without a steady hand on the helm, the ship veered toward the burning King’s Lady. As the bowsprit of Tithian’s schooner touched the blazing wreck, the ship’s wizard leaped off the bow. He flew a hundred yards in the direction of the island chain before a giant swatted him down.

  The jib sail of the Silt Lion burst into flames, and smoke began to roll over the main deck. Sailors and catapult slaves alike cried out in alarm and looked up to see what was wrong, then the whole ship shuddered as the bow crashed into the side of the King’s Lady.

  “Time to go,” Tithian said.

  The king drew the energy for another spell and used his magic to levitate himself. Taking care to stay away from any giant that could bat him down, he drifted out over the stern. Behind him, the Silt Lion’s vats of Balican fire began to ignite, sending column after column of golden flame shooting into the pearly sky. Within moments, the schooner’s wreck could not be distinguished from that of the King’s Lady.

  Tithian quickly identified Fylo’s distinctive form at the other end of the conflagration. The giant stood near the detached bow of the King’s Lady, the one piece of the ship that was not in flames, laughing in childish delight as he used a yardarm to knock the last few survivors off the upended hull.

  Tithian drifted forward through the smoke and haze. At the same time, the king took the precaution of withdrawing a small glass rod from his satchel, but he did not fully prepare the spell that would turn it into a lightning bolt. Until he learned how Fylo had come to be a part of this ambush, and what had happened to Agis, he had no intention of killing the giant.

  Tithian stopped just out of Fylo’s reach. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, yelling to make himself heard across the distance.

  The giant stepped away from the wreck, raising his yardarm to swing at the king. “Traitor!”

  Tithian dodged back. The huge club sank into the silt with a muffled whump, raising a curtain of pearly dust.

  “Why are you attacking your friend?” the king asked, resisting the urge to cast his spell.

  Fylo narrowed his eyes, gauging the distance to his target, then shrugged and turned back to the bow of the King’s Lady. “Tithian liar, not friend,” he said, using his yardarm to push a dwarf into the silt. “Agis real friend.”

  “What does Agis have to do with this?” Tithian asked. He felt both relieved and angry, for the giant’s comment implied that he had released the noble and not killed him. “You promised to guard him!”

  “Make promise before Agis show real Tithian to Fylo,” said the giant. “Then we go to Balic, and Agis tell Fylo about fleet going to Lybdos. He say, ‘Warn giants. Maybe they let Fylo live with them.’ ” The half-breed brought his pole down on a templar, crushing the man like a beetle. “Him right. Now Fylo can live on Lybdos—with beasthead friends.”

  Tithian could not contain himself. “What makes you think anyone could tolerate a hideous moron like you?”

  His eyes bugging out in anger, Fylo threw his yardarm at Tithian. The king tried to dodge, but the pole glanced off his shoulder, sending a terrible ache shooting down his arm and knocking the glass rod from his hand. He plummeted toward the sea, barely regaining control of his body in time to prevent himself from plunging into the dust. Fylo was on him instantly, grasping Tithian tightly in his massive fingers and preventing the king from reaching into his satchel for another spell component.

  “Agis like Fylo!” the giant snarled. “Beastheads like Fylo!”

  Tithian shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But Agis is just using you. So are the beastheads. When all this is done, they’ll send you away. Fylo will be alone, just like before.”

  “No!” Despite the retort, the giant looked crestfallen.

  “Yes,” Tithian insisted. “I’m the only one who could like you. Everyone else thinks you’re ugly.”

  Fylo shook his head. “Tithian liar! Tithian do terrible things to his friends in Kled.”

  “Did Agis tell you that?” Tithian asked, continuing his ploy. “I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. He’s been jealous of me ever since I became king. But what really hurts, Fylo, is knowing you believe him.”

  The giant looked surprised. “It does?”

  Tithian nodded. “More than you can know,” he said. “One has so few friends when he’s a king. I thought that you and I …” He let the sentence trail off, then lowered his eyes.

  “Fylo think so too—once,” said the giant. He returned to the bow of the King’s Lady, then plucked the last templar off the upturned hull and tossed the unfortunate fellow to the wind.

  “What are you doing?” Tithian asked, alarmed.

  “Agis warn Fylo you try another trick,” the giant answered, squeezing the king so tightly that he could not draw breath. “Agis say leave you here.”

  “You can’t betray me!”

  “Fylo get even before he go to live on Lybdos,” the giant chortled. “Good-bye, friend.”

  He flicked the king’s head with his huge index finger, and Tithian felt himself settling into a gray haze.

  FIVE

  OLD FRIENDS

  IN THE SHALLOW TROUGH BETWEEN TWO DUST SWELLS lay the severed bow of a Balican schooner. It rested on its side, blanketed by a gray mantle of silt, its bowsprit rising into the air at a shallow angle. On the
hull lay a man, fully exposed to the crimson sun and as still as the sea itself.

  “There he is!” Agis cried.

  The noble pointed toward the debris. Kester, standing with him and Nymos on the Shadow Viper’s quarterdeck, turned her heavy brow to the caravel’s port side. Her eyes quickly fell on the wreckage, for the day was a calm one, almost barren of wind and more stifling than a kiln.

  “Yer sure that’s him?” the tarek asked.

  Although the distance was too great to see the prone man’s features clearly, Agis nodded. “I haven’t seen any other survivors, and Fylo promised that he’d leave Tithian where I could find him.” The caravel began to slide down the dust swell’s slip face, and the noble added, “Bring us alongside.”

  The tarek shook her head. “He looks dead.”

  “Living or not, I’m taking him back to Tyr.”

  “Not on the Shadow Viper,” said Kester. “Ye hired me to capture a live man, not a dead one. I’ll not have his spirit plaguing me ship.”

  “Then I won’t pay you for the trip home,” the noble threatened.

  “Ye will pay—or I’ll set ye off over there!” She pointed at a scrub-covered island less than a mile away.

  Agis shook his head. “Our agreement was that you’d help me capture Tithian—and it doesn’t matter whether he’s alive or dead.”

  Kester reached for a knife, but Nymos interposed himself between the tarek and the noble. “This is foolish,” said the sorcerer, his blind eyes focused on neither of them. “Why don’t we go and see what Tithian’s condition is? If he’s not drawing breath, then you can argue.”

  “A prudent suggestion,” said Agis.

  Kester scowled for a moment longer. Then she shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll bring us about.”

  The tarek turned her attention to the main deck, where the ship’s canvas hung furled to the yardarms. Twenty crewmen toiled along each gunnel, thrusting wooden poles, each as tall as a giant, into the silt alongside the ship. After the long rods touched the shallow strait’s bottom, the haggard slaves marched sternward, pushing the caravel along at a mekillot’s pace. To keep everyone in step, the first man in each line chanted a deep-throated dirge, “Push-ho, push-ho, push-ho or die.”