Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 4 - Obsidian Oracle (26 page)

The sound had not even died away before Fylo pointed at the pit cover. “Go. Catch traitor
Tithian.”

Agis nodded, knowing that without help, he could not pull the heavy giant free of the
crystal. “I'll be back when I find some way to get you out,” Agis said, climbing into the
star-shaped crack. “I won't leave you here.”

The giant nodded. “Fylo know.”

“You're a brave friend,” Agis said. He pulled himself up into the yellow light of dawn.

The noble's chest had barely risen out of the cracked lid before he felt himself being
pinched between an immense thumb and forefinger. He was plucked out of the hole, then
lifted high into the air.

“How fortunate we were to arrive just as you were leaving,” hissed a sibilant voice.

Agis's captor turned him around, and the noble found himself staring at the face of a
Saram giant. The warrior had enormous fur-covered ears, wrinkled nostrils, and huge
scarlet eyes set into the gnarled, fleshless skull of a death's head bat.

“Take me to Bawan Nal,” Agis said, noticing that another two dozen beastheads stood behind
his captor. Most seemed to have the heads of serpents, spiders, and insects. “It's
important that I speak to him at once!”

This drew a malevolent chuckle from the entire company.

“Bawan Nal also trunks it important to speak with you,” the warrior replied. “It's not
often that he calls the Poison Pack away from its duties in the Mica Yard.”

*****

The tip of the forked wand glowed yellow and bowed downward ever so slightly, pointing
toward the center of the enclosure, where a single Saram giant guarded the entrance to a
subterranean passage. Armed with a bone battle-axe as tall as a faro tree, the sentry had
a hairless head more or less conical in shape, with beady eyes and small, peaked ears. His
pointed muzzle ended in a pair of flaring nostrils, with a pair of venom-dripping tusks
hanging from beneath his upper lips. He hardly seemed able to contain himself as he
bustled to and fro, swinging his axe in great, exuberant arcs and testing the cool breeze
for the scent of intruders.

Tithian allowed himself to peer at the giant for only an instant, then backed away from
the corner, fearing the guard would be alerted to his presence by the awful stench of goat
offal clinging to his clothes. The king moved a short distance down the enclosure wall, a
huge sheet of silvery mica that sprang directly out of the bedrock, then returned his
divining wand to his shoulder satchel.

“The lens is in there-and they left only one sentry to guard it,” he announced, pulling a
tiny crossbow and a quiver of a dozen dartlike quarrels from his pouch. “This is going to
be too easy. I had expected ten times that number.”

“You're overconfident,” said Sacha, hovering dose to his ear. “So far, you've inspired me
with nothing but doubt.”

“Only a fool could have believed that pack of giants was chasing us,” agreed Wyan. “You
jumped into a dung-filled pothole for nothing.”

“If I'm such a fool, how come you two were hiding there when I arrived?” Tithian
countered, fitting a tiny quarrel into its slot on the crossbow.

That done, the king turned his free palm toward the ground, preparing to cast a magical
spell. The energy came to him slowly, and all from the direction of the citadel's gate,
for he had to draw it all from the isle of Lybdos itself. If any plants had ever grown on
the peninsula's barren granite, they had long since been devoured by the domestic flocks
of the Saram. Finally, Tithian had enough energy to use his magic. He started toward the
enclosure entrance, hunched over and moving slowly.

He had taken no more than three steps when the muffled clatter of a ballista echoed over
the walls on the far side of the castle. A pained roar followed, and Tithian looked toward
the gate. He saw a lion-headed giant fall from the wall, clutching at a long harpoon
piercing his chest. The king smiled, for the sight suggested Mag'r had not yet sunk the
Shadow Viper,
and that could simplify matters greatly when the time came to escape.

Returning his attention to the task at hand, Tithian shuffled forward and stepped around
the jagged corner of the mica wall. He held his hands in front of his stomach, folded over
each other and with the crossbow concealed beneath them.

The sentry's nostrils sniffed at the breeze, and he squinted in the king's direction.
“You're a funny-looking goat,” he said. He started forward, adding, “Don't run. It'll only
make me mad.”

“Don't worry,” Tithian snickered. “The last thing I have in mind is running.”

Gnashing his tusks together, the sentry hefted his axe and charged. Tithian waited a
moment for the guard to build momentum, then raised his crossbow and fingered the trigger,
speaking his incantation at the same time. The bowstring clicked softly, launching the
tiny bolt at the giant. As soon as the needle deared the groove, it began to sputter and
hiss, spewing blue sparks from its tail.

As the needle streaked away, the giant came into range for his own attack, leveling his
axe at the king's head. Tithian threw himself down, and the blade clattered against the
granite bedrock at the king's side, so dose that the impact sprayed his face with hot
shards of chipped blade. In the same instant, the tiny quarrel pierced its target's chest.

The sentry slapped at the puncture as though stung by an insect. Then, absentmindedly
scratching at the wound, he sneered at the king's prone form. “It'll take more than a blue
flash to kill Mal.”

A wisp of grayish smoke shot from the tiny wound, then Mai's rib cage gave a great heave.
A muted discharge sounded inside his chest. His beady eyes bulged in surprise, and a
horrid gurgle, half-growl and half-groan, rasped from his throat. The axe slipped from his
grasp, his knees already buckling.

Tithian rolled. He heard the crash of the bone axe handle striking the granite floor, then
saw the dark shadow of an axe head spreading outward around his body. The flat of the
blade fell squarely on him, sounding a sharp crack inside his skull. An instant later, the
sentry's lifeless corpse fell on top of the axe, and the king's body erupted into agony.

The ground began to spin, and a terrible ache throbbed from his skull clear down to his
legs. It hurt to breathe, and he felt his mind drifting off into the gray arena of
nothingness. With a start, the king realized he was falling unconscious, allowing his mind
to retreat from the fiery pain flaring inside his head. He could not allow that, for to
sleep now would be to die. Worse, it would be to fail, with the Grade all but hi his grasp.

“Stand, you miserable cur!” yelled Sacha.

“Die now, and the Shadow People shall have your spirit as their slave-until Rajaat is
free!” threatened Wyan.

Tithian seized on their angry words, visualizing his fingers closing around a burning
rope. He began pulling hand over hand, hauling himself out of the darkness, into the
blinding light and searing agony that was his body. Within moments, he was once again
fully possessed by his pain.

For a moment, Tithian tried to accept his physical anguish, to let it wash over his body
like a searing wind, uncomfortable, but sufferable for short periods of time. It was no
use. He had never been good at enduring pain, and he was no better at it now. If he was to
survive this, he would have to rely on an old trick, one that he had found useful since
his adolescence.

Marshaling his spiritual energy, the king used the Way to form an image of his friend
Agis. His own pain he viewed as a bottomless vial of syrupy brown poison, and this he
tipped toward the noble's open mouth. Tithian felt better immediately. He could still feel
the agony of the giant's crushing weight, but it went straight into the brown vial, and
from there down Agis's throat. The king's ribs still ached, and his head still throbbed,
but no longer was the pain overwhelming.

Slowly, the king dragged himself from beneath the axe blade's crushing weight, then rose
and stood at the dead giant's side.

“You're looking better,” observed Sacha. “More fit to be one of Rajaat's servants.”

“What happened?” inquired Wyan.

“Agis is bearing my pain for me,” Tithian replied. “Remind me to reward him when we return
from freeing Rajaat.”

“He'll never survive that long,” replied Sacha. “Our task will take months.”

“Agis will find a way,” the king said absently, studying the interior of the enclosure.

It was roughly rectangular in shape, surrounded by ragged slabs of mica that rose from the
granite bedrock like a tall, silvery hedge. In the center of the enclosure, a pearly film
shimmered over the entrance to a dark tunnel, just large enough for a Saram giant -or a
small Joorsh-to crawl through. The passage tilted to one side, so that anyone passing down
it would be forced to lean sharply to the right.

Tithian started toward the tunnel, saying, “Besides, it hardly matters if Agis isn't alive
when we return. If he's not, I'll just raise him from the dead.” When neither of the heads
said anything in reply, Tithian asked, “Rajaat will grant me such powers, won't he?”

“Rajaat can bestow you with magic,” replied Wyan. “What you learn to do with it is not for
him to determine.”

Tithian reached the passage and stopped. The tunnel entrance was covered by a single flake
of mica, as thin as paper and as clear as glass. Behind it, the hole descended into the
bedrock at a steep slope, lined on both sides by smooth walls of the mineral. The floor
and ceiling looked like the torn edges of a book, showing the ends of hundreds of
closely-pressed mica sheets.

“What are you waiting for?” snapped Sacha. “Go get it!”

The king opened his satchel and removed a black belt, so wide it was almost a girdle. The
buckle was hidden by a starburst of red flames, with the skull of a fierce half-man in the
center. As Tithian laid the belt over his arm, the stiff leather crackled like breaking
fingers.

“That's the dwarven Belt of Rank!” gasped Wyan.

Tithian nodded. “A little token for the ghosts of Sa'ram and Jo'orsh,” he replied. “You
remember those slavers Agis is so mad about?”

“The ones that mistakenly raided Kled,” confirmed Wyan.

“Yes, except it was no mistake-and they weren't after slaves,” said the king, smiling.

With that, he pressed his fingers against the shimmering mica. He felt a brief burning
sensation as they sank through, then he was looking at his hand through the silvery sheet.
The membrane reminded him of the lid that covered the pit where he had left Agis.
Remembering how difficult it had been to get out of there, he hesitated before stepping
through.

“You two wait here,” Tithian said to the heads. “I may need you to help me get back
through this.”

“I'll come with you,” said Wyan. “Sacha can wait here.”

Tithian considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “Have you forgotten that I
found the lens by locating the undead spirits of Jo'orsh and Sa'ram?” Tithian asked. “I'm
more certain of finding them down there than the Dark Lens. It wouldn't do to have them
recognize you from the days of Rajaat.”

“As you wish,” replied Wyan. “But if you fail-”

“You won't do anything to me that will be worse than what Sa'ram and Jo'orsh do,” Tithian
replied.

The king stepped through the mica, then looked back toward Sacha and Wyan. The two heads
continued to hover outside the entrance, watching him with suspicious frowns.

“Hide yourselves!” Tithian ordered. “I don't want you here when I send Jo'orsh and Sa'ram
out!”

The pair narrowed their eyes and began to drift away. “We'll be watching!” warned Sacha.

The king shuffled down the slanted tunnel. Each time he touched the mica's slick surface,
a feverish tingle buzzed through his fingers. The air felt sweltering and still, heavy
with the stale smell of dankness. There was no sound, save for the whisper of Tithian's
breath hissing past his lips, and the soft crunch of his boots on the floor. As he
advanced down the corridor, the color of the walls changed from silver to lavender, then
to green, brown, and finally, when he had gone so deep that the entrance was only a point
of light far behind, the tunnel became jet black.

Soon it grew too dark to see what lay ahead, and Tithian stopped to prepare a light spell.
When he opened his palm to summon the energy he needed, his whole arm began to tingle with
the same burning sensation that he felt whenever he touched his fingers to the walls.
Before he could close his fist to cut off the flow, the strange force rushed into his body
of its own accord, as if it were being driven into him by some external pressure.

Hissing in pain, Tithian opened his palm and tried to expel the searing energy. Nothing
happened, save that the smell of his own scorched flesh rose to his nostrils. Fearing he
would burst into flames, the king fished a wad of glowing moss from his satchel and cast
his spell.

A blinding flash filled the passage. The fiery tingle inside Tithian's body faded as his
spell consumed the energy that had pervaded his form. The rancid stench of burning flesh
did not fade, however, nor did the scalding feeling inside his body. The king found
himself sucking his breath through clenched teeth, and the vial inside his mind was
overflowing with the brown syrup of pain.

To his dismay, the spell did not work quite as he had planned, either. Instead of the soft
crimson glow he had expected, the corridor was filled with hundreds of globes of scarlet
light, erupting into existence one moment, then, an instant later, expiring in a maroon
burst.

It took Tithian's eyes a few moments to adjust to the strange illumination. When they did,
he almost wished that he were still blind.

Crawling up the corridor were two skeletal lumps, about the size of Saram giants and
warped into shapes scarcely recognizable as manlike. Their legs were gnarled masses, with
knotted balls for feet, while the thighs, knees, and calves were all curled together in a
single coil. Long, twisted shards of bone jutted out from their shoulders, lacking any
sign of elbows, wrists, or hands. One figure had fused ribs and a hunched back, with a
slope-browed skull sitting on his squat neck. The other's torso was more normal, except
that his neck ended in a knobby stump with no head at all.