Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 4 - Obsidian Oracle (11 page)

“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. “Goodbye,
friend.”

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

In the shallow trough between two dust swells lay the severed bow of a Balkan 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.”

As the two singers reached the quarterdeck, they changed the chant. “Stop ye, stop ye,
time to rest, mate!”

Both lines of slaves halted and withdrew their poles from the dust. After everyone had
stopped moving, the man at the front of each group cried, “Front now, front now, to work
with ye!” This sent them all scurrying forward to plunge their poles into the dust and
start over again.

When the
Shadow Viper's
bow reached the bottom of the dust swell, Kester braced herself against the gunnel and
yelled, “Hard to port, Perkin!”

The helmsman spun his wheel, and the slaves along the left gunnel withdrew their poles
from the silt. The caravel pivoted so rapidly that Agis had to grab Nymos's arm to prevent
the reptile from tumbling overboard. Despite the sharp turn, the noble could see that the
bow would plow into the next dust swell before the ship completed the maneuver.

Growling in anger, Kester leaped past her ship-floater and took a long whip off the rail.
She jumped down onto the main deck and savagely lashed at the men on the port side. Each
time the scourge's tail popped, a slave howled in pain and a welt rose on his naked back.

“I said
hard to port!”
the tarek yelled.

The port-side slaves angled their poles forward and pushed, as though trying to move the
ship backward. The
Shadow Viper's
bow snapped around instantly, the bowsprit just missing the next dust swell. Kester
continued to lash her crew members, cursing their slow response and making sure to open a
cut on the back of every man in line.

Agis went down to Kester's side and laid a restraining hand on her whip. “Don't you think
that's enough?” he asked. “It's bad enough to crew your ship with slaves, but they don't
deserve such abuse.”

Kester bared her fangs. “This is my ship,” she snarled. Her breath was rancid, for long
journeys were difficult on the tarek's system. Instead of live lizards or snakes, she ate
salted and dried meats- which were only slightly better for her than the moldering faro
her human crew ate. Agis suspected that the tarek's diet fouled more than her digestive
system, for Kester's temperament had been growing steadily worse since leaving Balk. “I'll
run her as I hie.”

“Not while you're under my hire,” Agis replied, taking the whip from the tarek's big hand.

“These men were convicts before they became slaves,” said Nymos, speaking from the rail of
the quarterdeck. His milky eyes were focused blankly in the air above Agis's head. “They
deserve what Kester gives them-and they owe their lives to her.”

“That's right,” agreed Kester. “Every one of 'em would have had his heart cut out in the
arena if not for my purse.”

“Saving a man doesn't give you the right to brutalize him,” countered the noble, returning
to the quarterdeck with the whip. “I won't stand for it-not even from the captain of a
ship.”

Kester followed him. As he returned the whip to its peg, she pointed at the flotsam ahead
and asked, “I suppose what ye've planned for your friend isn't brutal?”

The
Shadow Viper
was so close to the wreck that Agis could see Tithian lying on his face, his long braid of
auburn hair coiled over one shoulder.

“I have nothing planned for Tithian, except to take him back to answer for his crimes,”
replied the noble.

“And to find out what he and Andropinis are doing,” Nymos added. “Your aversion to
brutality had better not keep you from loosening his tongue.”

“There are other ways to make Tithian speak,” replied Agis. “Besides, no amount of pain
can make him tell the truth if he doesn't want to.”

“Especially not if he's dead,” added Kester. The tarek's eyes were fixed to the starboard
of the
Shadow Viper's
bow, which was just passing alongside Tithian's motionless body. She allowed her ship to
creep forward a few more yards, then barked, “Dead stop!”

The crewmen lifted their poles, then angled the long shafts forward and plunged them back
into the dust. The caravel lurched to a stop, its quarterdeck just aft of the derelict.
The starboard slaves peered down on the wreck in weary silence, studying Tithian's inert
form.

Kester jumped off the quarterdeck and grabbed a long plank. She pushed it through a slot
in the bottom of the gunnel, guiding it toward the wrecked bow. Motioning Agis to the
plank, she said, “Ye be careful. Just because the silt's shallow and the hull rests on the
bottom doesn't mean she won't shift. If ye fall in, there'll be nothing we can do to save
ye.”

“What about tying a rope around my waist?” Agis asked, climbing over the gunnel.

“I told ye once, I'll not have any corpses on me ship,” Kester replied testily. “By the
time we dragged ye back, yer lungs would be full of silt.”

“Why don't you use the Way to fly or levitate?” suggested Nymos.

Agis shook his head, more to himself than to the blind sorcerer. “That's not one of the
areas my meditations have led me to explore,” he answered. “And the king's too heavy for
me to move with other forms of the Way. If I want to take him back to Tyr, I'll have to
walk over there and get him.”

The noble turned his attention to the plank of mekillot rib in front of him. It was about
as wide as his shoulders and more than ten yards long, with a weathered surface the color
of ivory. Below it lay a pearly layer of dust, so loosely packed that it looked more like
an oasis mist than a silt bed.

The other end of the gangway rested near the midpoint of the derelict bow, which lay with
a steep slant toward the aft end. Because of the angle, only one corner of Agis's plank
rested firmly on the wreck. The other hung without support a few inches above the wooden
hull.

Tithian lay on his belly in the center of the wreck, his satchel strapped across his chest
and his face turned in the opposite direction. The king's auburn hair was matted with
blood, and the golden diadem around his head had been badly dented by a blow.

Agis released his hold on the gunnel and shuffled forward, his heart pounding in fear each
time the gangway wobbled. As he crossed the halfway point, the plank twisted under his
weight and began to slip down the hull of the wreck. He dropped to his stomach to spread
his weight out more evenly, then pulled himself the rest of the way across without rising.
It seemed to take forever to reach the end, but when he finally did, he breathed a deep
sigh of relief and crawled onto the bow.

A muffled groan rumbled up from the timbers. The aft end slowly tipped more steeply toward
the sea. Tithian's motionless form slipped closer to the silt, and Agis nearly lost his
balance. The noble scurried forward and caught the king by the shoulders, pulling him
toward the bowsprit and stabilizing the wreck.

Agis shook Tithian's shoulder. “Wake up,” he said. “You and I have places to go.”

When there was no response, Agis rolled the king onto his back. The body turned limply,
with no hint of tension in the muscles. If not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest,
Agis would have thought him dead. Tithian's eyes were sunken, and dried blood caked both
cheeks. From between his cracked lips protruded a dun-colored tongue, hugely swollen with
thirst and as dry as the Sea of Silt.

“Even from here, he looks as dead as a toppled giant,” called Kester. “Push him into the
silt and let's be gone. It's not wise to tarry in these parts.”

“He's alive, more or less,” Agis reported. He looking back to see Kester, Nymos, and half
the crew standing along the gunnels. “It's just that I can't wake him.”

“Wet his lips,” suggested Nymos. “Thirst is a powerful incentive, even to an unconscious
mind.”

Since no waterskin lay in view, Agis opened the king's satchel and peered inside. Despite
its bulky outward appearance, it was empty. The noble closed the bag, then looked back to
the ship. “Throw me a waterskin.”

Kester took a half-filled waterskin from a hook on the mainmast, then tossed it toward
Agis. The heavy sack fell short of the noble's grasp and dropped on the king's chest with
a dull thump. Tithian did not stir.

“If that didn't wake him, nothing will,” said Kester. “Ye'll have to carry him. If we
don't hurry, that wreck'll sink beneath ye.”

Casting a wary eye toward the unsteady plank, Agis said, “Let me try Nymos's way first.”

The noble sat down and cradled Tithian's head in his lap, then poured a small amount of
water over the king's mouth. A few drops ran down Tithian's swollen tongue into his
throat. He coughed violently, but did not open his eyes or show any other sign of waking.

Thirst and heat, Agis knew, could thicken a man's blood until he lost consciousness, but
the noble did not think that was Tithian's problem. If that had been the case, the king's
skin would have been flushed and clammy, instead of sun-blistered and peeling. It seemed
more likely he had suffered a concussion from the blow that had bent his crown and split
his scalp open.

Agis pulled a tangle of blood-matted hair away from the crown and gently tried to remove
the diadem. The circlet moved only a fraction of an inch before the dented section snagged
on the edge of the king's wound. A distressed groan escaped Tithian's lips, and he
instinctively tried to pull his head away from the noble's grasp. Encouraged by this
development, Agis slipped a finger under the bent diadem and began to pry it off.

A gaunt hand flashed up from the king's side, seizing the noble's wrist. “Don't touch my
crown!” croaked Tithian, his broken fingernails digging into Agis's flesh. Although his
eyes had opened, they remained glazed and unfocused.

Agis released the diadem. “I think you'd return from the dead to keep this paltry circlet
on your head.”

Tithian released the noble's arm, struggling to focus his eyes on Agis's face. “You!” he
gasped weakly. “Traitor!”

Agis dumped a stream of water into Tithian's mouth. “I'm not the traitor here.”

The king choked, then managed to swallow. “You cost me a fleet!” he sputtered, his
thick-tongued voice barely more than a whisper.

As Tithian struggled to push himself upright, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, and
he groaned in pain. He raised his fingers to his smashed diadem, then asked, “How
did
you make that fool Fylo betray me? I know you didn't use the Way, because I tried that
myself.”

“Fylo's wise enough to know the truth when he sees it,” Agis replied, handing the
waterskin to Tithian. “Now drink. It would be better if you're still alive when I return
you to Tyr.”

Tithian accepted the skin and raised it to his lips. After he had taken a half-dozen
gulps, he said, “I've no wish to return to Tyr at the moment.”

“That's not your choice,” replied Agis, laying a hand on his sword's hilt. “I'm taking you
back to the city.”

At the same time, the noble opened the internal pathway to his spiritual energy, preparing
to defend himself with the Way. His palace spies had been keeping him informed of
Tithian's progress as both a mindbender and a sorcerer, and the noble knew the king would
be a formidable opponent if it came to a fight.