Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 4 - Obsidian Oracle (9 page)

“There can only be one giant that ugly,” Tithian growled. “Fylo!” He turned to the ship's
mate and ordered, “Stop the ship!”

Navarch Saanakal, high templar of the king's fleets, stepped to the Tyrian's side. Even
for a half-elf, he was tall and slender, towering two full heads over Tithian. Beneath the
grimy glass of his dust-shields, the commander's eyes were pale brown and as fiery as
embers. He had lean, sharp cheeks and a bony nose, but a silk scarf hid the rest of his
face, protecting his airway from the dust.

“The
Silt Lion
is no dingy, Your Highness,” he said with forced courtesy. “We can't stop her at a
moment's notice.” He took the king's eye and returned it to the mate. “If you please,
Sachet needs the eye to guide the ship.”

“Then bring us around,” Tithian ordered, pointing into the haze on the leeward side of the
schooner. “I must speak to that giant!”

Saanakal rolled his eyes. “In the Sea of Silt, you avoid giants, Your Highness,” he said.
“Failing that, you run for deep silt, or fight if you must-but you don't talk to them.”

“This giant belongs to me,” Tithian said, putting his dust-shields back in place. “I must
find out what he's doing here. He's supposed to be taking care of an important matter
outside Balic.”

“Very well,” Navarch Saanakal sighed. To the mate, he said, “Bring the
Silt lion
around. Have the rest of the fleet form a semicircle with us at the center.”

As the mate relayed the orders, Tithian looked over the gunnel. He could see nothing but a
pearly miasma of dust, with no demarcation between the surface of the sea and the air.
Even the sun seemed half lost, its position marked only by a faint halo of orange light.

Despite the poor visibility, the king continued to search the murk for Fylo. No matter how
he looked at it, the giant's presence meant trouble. Either the oaf had killed Agis and
somehow tracked Tithian to the Strait of Baza, or he had realized that his “friend” was
not coming back and released the noble.

The king didn't know which to hope for. If Agis lived, he would still be following, no
doubt determined to make Tythian answer for the raid on Kled. Sooner or later, the noble
would catch up and, probably, they would fight.

The king did not want that. His memories of their youthful camaraderie remained too vivid.
Tithian could still hear a teenaged Agis pleading with him not to sneak out of the academy
for a night of debauchery, then trying to comfort him after the master ordered him to pack
his robes and leave the grounds. Later, after Tithian had betrayed his birth class by
joining Kalak's templars, the noble had been with several young lords when they happened
upon him in the Elven Market. One insult had led to another until the meeting came to
blows, but Agis had fought on the young templar's side, saving him a severe beating. Then
there was the time after his brother's death-

Tithian could not allow himself to think of that, not until he knew whether or not he
would have to kill Agis. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the memories from his head,
then looked to the ship's mate.

“Can you see my giant?” he asked.

“No,” came the reply. “We're too far past.”

Tithian turned to berate Navarch Saanakal for allowing Fylo to disappear, but the high
templar was ready with a response. “With twenty ships looking for him, we won't have any
trouble finding your giant again.” To the mate, the half-elf said, “Ready the catapult
slaves, all ships to do the same.”

“I don't want Fylo killed,” Tithian objected. “Not yet, anyway.”

“I have no intention of killing him, but he may be disinclined to talk,” said the high
templar. “Until we have persuaded him to behave, perhaps you should join Ictinis. The
floater's pit is the safest place on the command deck.”

The high templar pointed to a shallow cockpit in front of the helm, where a gray-haired
man named Ictinis sat with his palms resting on a table-sized dome of polished obsidian.
Although he had the haggard aspect of a pauper, the gold rings on his fingers betrayed his
true status. Ictinis was a shipfloater, a mindbender especially trained to use the Way to
keep the schooner from sinking into the dust. He kept the ship afloat by sending his
spiritual energy through the dome and into the hull. The task was a difficult one,
requiring both physical endurance and psychic strength.

Tithian slipped into the chaperon's seat, a small bench where the floater sat while
training his apprentices. During the last five days, the king had passed much of his time
in this seat, learning Ictinis's art. He was not so much interested in keeping the ship
afloat as in understanding how the dome worked, for it resembled the obsidian balls
sorcerer-kings used to tap into the life-force of their subjects when they cast their most
powerful magical spells.

Having begun his study of sorcery only five years ago, Tithian did not yet know any
enchantments so potent that he could not cast them through the conventional means. But the
thought had occurred to him that he could increase the effectiveness of his limited
abilities by using an orb. Besides, he suspected that the sooner he learned to control the
flow of mystic energy through obsidian, the easier it would be for him when the time came
to learn the most powerful spells.

Ictinis suddenly looked up from the dome, his red-rimmed eyes opened wide in alarm. At
first, Tithian feared that the old man had fallen ill, but the ship-floater twisted his
head toward Saanakal's station to relay a message that he had received through the dome.

“Captain Phaedras reports that as he began his turn, he saw a wall of giants blocking the
exit to the strait, High One,” said Ictinis.

“What type?” demanded Saanakal. “How many?”

Ictinis turned his gaze back to the dome. His eyes glazed over, then he called, “Perhaps
fifty, all beast-head.”

“Beasthead?” Tithian asked.

“The giants are divided into two tribes, the humanoid and the beasthead,” explained the
sailor at the helm, an anonymous young woman whose face remained hidden beneath her
dust-shields and silt-scarf. Although her voice was calm, she clenched the wheel so
tightly that the veins showed in her forearms.

Saanakal scowled and peered into the dusty haze ahead. “So many,” he said, shaking his
head. “They must have come from Lybdos.”

Tithian climbed out of the cockpit. “What for?”

“To ambush us. We're only a couple of days from Lybdos, and the beastheads don't allow
visitors to that island,” the high templar explained. “Now I must ask you to return to the
floater's pit.”

Tithian shook his head. “I prefer to see what is happening.”

“Then stand aside,” snapped Saanakal, gesturing toward the gunnel. “We've a battle to
fight.”

Tithian started to object to the rude treatment, then held his tongue and did as he was
asked. There would always be time after the battle to chastise the high templar.

Saanakal looked to the ship's mate. “Terrain?”

“Seven low islands to port,” he said, peering to the left side of the bow. He swept the
king's eye to the right, then added, “Scattered boulders-no, make that giants-a half-mile
to starboard. Another fifty, I would guess.” He lowered the glass cone and looked at
Saanakal. “They're closing on our flank.”

“Chain the catapult slaves to their weapons,” said Saanakal, his voice strangely calm and
quiet. “Have the wizard brought up and tell him to prepare the Balkan fire.”

The ship's mate blanched and swallowed hard. “As you wish, High One.”

While the mate relayed the order to the rest of the ship, Saanakal spoke to Ictinis.
“Close the line! The
Lin Song
is to lead a run for the islands, but no one's to break formation. All ships are to use
Balican fire in their catapults.”

“Yes, High One,” replied Ictinis. He returned his attention to the black dome, and his
eyes grew vacant.

Tithian went to the quarterdeck rail to watch the battle preparations, hoping the crew
would keep the ship afloat long enough for him to find Fylo. The king did not know what
part the big oaf had played in this ambush, but it could be no coincidence that the giant
happened to be crossing the Strait of Baza at this moment.

On the main deck ahead, a half-dozen crews were laboring to ready their catapults. The
skein cords creaked in eerie protest as powerful dwarven slaves pushed against long
levers, struggling to wind the cup arms down and lock them into place. With each weapon
stood a templar overseer, complicating the dwarves' task by popping his whip over their
bald heads and yelling for them to work faster.

Behind each catapult rested a stone vat, half-filled with grainy powder, while the ship's
wizard, an old man with a bushy head of gray hair, stood at the far end of the deck. With
him were two assistants, one pushing a cart-mounted tub of black sludge and the other
carrying a long ladle.

Under the sorcerer's direction, the first assistant stopped his cart, and the second
poured a ladle of sludge into the vat of powder behind the first catapult. The wizard
turned his palm toward the deck in preparation for casting a spell. The process took a
little longer than usual, for few plants grew in the Sea of Silt, and most of the energy
had to come from a distant island.

When the sorcerer finally had enough energy, he uttered his spell over the concoction. A
fiery yellow flash shot into the air, licking the yardarms and setting the sails to
smoking. A foul, mordant odor drifted back to the quarterdeck, and the mixture began to
burn with an unnatural golden light.

As the wizard moved to the next vat, Tithian turned his attention to the sea near the
ship. The giants were still screened by blowing dust, but he could see that the Balkan
fleet had already closed formation. Off the stern, the
Wyvern
had come up so close that a strong man could have leaped from its bowsprit onto the deck
where Tithian stood. Its foredeck ballistae, with their tree-sized harpoons already
nocked, were more clearly visible than those on the foredeck of his own ship.

The wizard kindled his fire in the last of the stone vats, then went to the foredeck to
await battle among the ballistae. The catapult crews locked their firing arms into place
and stood by with bone ladles in hand, ready to load their weapons as soon as the giants
were visible. The rest of the sailors, except those needed to work the rigging, stood in
the center of the main deck. Half carried long barbed lances, while the other half,
serving as a fire corps, held sacks full of dust. The flapping sails and crackle of Balkan
fire were the only audible sounds.

“Captain Phaedras is firing his catapults.” There was a short pause, then Ictinis
completed his report. “The
Lin Song
has gone down.”

“So fast?” Tithian gasped.

Saanakal nodded, and the ship fell even more silent than before word had come of the
Lin Song's
fate. Tithian stepped over to the gunnel and peered into the featureless haze. “Tell me,
Saanakal, how many giants will we take with us?”

“A handful,” the high templar admitted, his voice emotionless.

“And the fleet won't survive?” Tithian asked.

“Not realistically,” Saanakal answered. “We have shallow silt all around, so we can't
maneuver away from our attackers-and no one has ever survived a battle with a hundred
giants.”

From the haze ahead came the muffled thumps of several catapult arms striking their
crossbeams. A half-dozen streaks of yellow light arced through the sky, bursting into
fiery showers as they started to descend. By the time the spray reached the surface of the
dust, it had coalesced into a single curtain of golden flame. Across the distance rumbled
muted roars and bellows, more akin to the yowls of wild beasts than the cries of manlike
beings.

“The
Giant's Bane
is taking a charge.”

The shipfloater had barely finished his report before the mate called, “Boulders!”

Instantly, Saanakal yelled, “Catapults!”

Tithian spun around in time to see the silhouettes of a dozen giants wading toward the
Silt Lion.
He saw the heads of a dozen different beasts-birds, lions, wyverns, kanks, and
more-resting on the shoulders of manlike giants, then a barrage of stones came flying out
of the haze. Most dropped short of the ship, sending silvery plumes of dust shooting into
the sky. Four of the boulders found their marks, sending a series of thunderous crashes
resounding through the decks.

One stone shattered a foredeck ballista. As its tightly wound skeins sprang loose, the
cords knocked half the weapon's crew over the side. Two more boulders hit the main deck,
opening kank-sized holes in the planking and dropping a handful of reinforcements into the
hold below. The last smashed a vat of Balkan fire. Five dwarven slaves screamed in pain as
yellow flame splashed over their shoulders, and small puddles of burning, syrupy liquid
formed on the deck.

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 Balkan 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.

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